


An unlikely Cassius

by extrapolation



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fix-It, Italian Mafia, Period Typical Attitudes, Season 4 Knowledge Required, Spies & Secret Agents, Unprotected Sex, this is a fix-it fic for Luca Changretta make no mistake, tropes galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 53,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20647934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extrapolation/pseuds/extrapolation
Summary: “I’m not buying it,” he drawls.She raises her eyebrows, sitting up straighter.“See spies are supposed to be discrete,” he waves his hand around, searching for another word. “Unassuming,” he settles on, in his deep New York accent. “You,” Luca points a long ringed finger at her whole getup, “I noticed you.”An involuntary shiver runs down her spine.“Maybe, I wanted you to notice me,” she replies, even toned.---Emilia Turner is the secret weapon of the Shelby family's success; a lost relative of Polly's and their inside man in the government. Luca Changretta is the mob boss who's about to undo all her hard work. That is, unless she can gain his trust, putting both their allegiances to the test in the process.





	1. Friends, Romans, countrymen,

It started in New York.

Emilia slips on her gown, it’s a deep navy blue, glitzy number, that sets off her eyes. If all goes according to plan, it’s the same colour she will be wearing when they meet officially for the first time, so she needs it to be memorable. She gives herself a quick once-over before heading out, acceptable, if a bit much.

She gives the cab driver the address in a broad, sort of general American accent. New York may be a melting pot of culture but some places it’s just easier to blend in. 

The party was a big affair, it seemed. She recognised a myriad of faces, the who’s who of Manhattan culture had come out tonight. Emilia had promised Ada she would take her to all the big parties and events in town, when she arrived in a few months, but honestly, they weren’t her scene and tonight was quickly becoming a chore. She had worked too many nights, just like this, all basically amounting to nothing.

She shows the doorman her forged invite, affecting an air of vague annoyance, something these people had perfected into an art form, and heads straight for the bar. Luca Changretta is already here, and she already knows where he will be sitting. This wasn’t the Garrison, where everybody knew who owned it, and where they liked to sit, and acted accordingly. But Emilia happened to know the Changretta’s did own this particular ballroom, and the hotel above it, and had been observed by one of her colleagues as keeping the table on the far side of the room unofficially reserved. This put the bar, and by association her, in their direct line of sight. 

She orders a gin and tonic, because why the fuck not? She was here to be seen and that was it, not exactly her most difficult mission. She makes idle chit-chat with the other guests at the bar, keeping the accent, also because why not? She’d always found that part of the job fun.

She steals a glance over at their table. Luca Changretta has his dark hair slicked back fashionably, he’s wearing a three-piece suit just as dark and lavish, adorned with all the accoutrements of a wealthy man. He’s chatting animatedly with a companion, waving his hands around, gesticulating in that particularly Italian way. He’s an imposing man, she notices. Not big like muscly, but tall and broad through the shoulders, with a reach that would impress if he were a boxer. Claims all the space around himself almost incidentally. A large shadow of a man.

He’s not looking her way, but she notices one of his other companions is, one of his cronies. She smiles sheepishly, pretending to have been caught and quickly looks away, burying her face in her glass.

The same man appears beside her a moment later, elbows on the bar, almost pressed against her shoulder. “My boss would like to meet you,” he says into her ear, over the din of the party. She nearly laughs, because of course this is how these things are done. Luca Changretta is a man who holds such significant influence here. He has men to do everything for him, including it seems, pick up women. 

She decides to play dumb instead. “That’s nice,” she replies, voice indifferent.

The man does laugh, “You don’t know who he is, do you?” His voice is American, with a hint of something else. It would be nearly undetectable if she didn’t know what to listen for.

She looks up at him, and then turns to look back at Changretta. He’s still talking but does glance over, they make eye contact for a brief second, before he turns away again. That’s more than enough, she thinks.

“If your boss wanted to meet me, why doesn’t he come over himself?” She replies, just a little nasty. As if this would work on a nice, self-respecting girl like the one she was imitating. 

She finishes her drink and gets up and leaves without another word. Goes back to her apartment, lets her hair down out of its elaborate updo and wonders how long she should wait before showing up again.

In the end, she lays low for a few days. 

There's a restaurant on Bleeker, no owner’s name on the official books but the Spinietta family own the whole block, and almost all the men who work for Changretta have been spotted coming and going from the building at some point. A more casual meeting place for the families than the bawdy hotel from the other night.

She decides to hang around outside, across the street. The Manhattan public mill about, trudging up and down the subway platform steps she stands by, going about their days. She smokes, watches them, and waits to be seen. She keeps her hair out, just for extra effect, it whips around her in the cool wind, she can’t wait to cut it all off. Emilia plucks the collar of her navy coat, pulling it up higher about her neck.

The colour thing’s a little weak in her opinion, but it had worked in the past, and she was going to need every bit of help she could get.

A couple of dark-dressed men exit the restaurant all together, with Luca Changretta at the middle of them. He's the tallest of the lot, aquiline nose, and pair of deep-set eyes shining out from under the brim of his hat.

She blows out a large puff of smoke, lets it billow around her, and turns to face the group full on. It all couldn't unfold more perfectly; a car drives by honking, just as Changretta's group pass parallel to her. 

Luca looks up at the sound and their eyes meet across the street.

His step falters and he looks at her like he can’t quite place her, his eyebrows pulling together in the middle. She takes another drag of her cigarette and holds his gaze. He’s momentarily distracted by one of his companions, and in the second that he looks away, Emilia disappears down the subway steps. She looks back, half submerged down the steps, half hidden by a pylon, knowing she’s completely out of his sight.

Luca Changretta looks up and down the street, visibly searching for her, and hopefully that’ll do it. Emilia turns and wanders completely down the stairs, gets on a train, and heads for home.

* * *

Technically, it had started before that for her. For all of them.

She decodes the message from her employer and phones Tommy immediately. She’s mostly surprised when he actually answers.

“Evening, Tom. Very sorry for your loss,” and she was, that part needed no lie. She had always liked Grace; she had a noble reason for becoming a double agent, something Emilia had always respected. Or envied, she wasn’t sure sometimes.

She hears him sigh on the other end of the line. Not in the mood to talk, which was understandable.

She decides to just go for it. “Listen, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but it’s about the old man—”

“How do you know about that?” He cuts her off.

“How could I not?” She questions back, Tommy’s next moves were often unpredictable, but not this one. “Besides,” she counters, “Your men are all over the fucking docks.”

Tommy makes a low grumble sound, “I don’t want to know anything about him. They killed her, that’s it.” His voice is strained with emotion. She finds it almost hard to listen to.

“There’s another son, an older one,” she says, evenly, unsure how he’ll react, “We’ve been watching these Italian families in New York, and they’re—”

“I don’t care how many fucking sons Vicente Changretta has. They’re all dead, Em!” He yells, cutting her off again.

It’s Emilia’s turn to sigh. She’s seen Tommy mad, heard about his fury from the others. This feels different, but of course it is, he’s alone now.

“Okay, Tom,” is all she can say, in the end. “Oh, don’t use the phones from tomorrow on, they’ll be listening,” she adds on, he always appreciates that kind of insider info.

“Yep,” he says, and hangs up.

And then, Vicente Changretta had shown up dead in a factory somewhere and everything went to shit.

* * *

Luca Changretta climbs the steps to his suite, nodding at the usual housekeeper as she leaves the room.

“Your guest is waiting inside for you, Sir,” she says, passing him on her way out.

Guest? Luca stays silent, but his face must have balked, staring back at the door.

The housekeeper looks nervous, “The woman? She said you would know her.”

Luca waves her away, and she scurries down the hall. His ears trained on the door, listening for a hint of who or what might be inside. He had just sent Matteo and the others over to the other side of town, he wouldn’t have back-up for hours. Besides, nobody should even know he was here. They had only just moved into the hotel, and Luca didn’t relish doing the background work to change again so soon.

Bite the bullet, as they say. 

Luca places a hand on the holster inside his jacket, takes a deep breath, and slowly pushes open the door to his suite.

He peers to the right as something catches his eye.

And there she was: the dark-haired looker from the party, the same one that was loitering around the subway stop outside his restaurant. Sitting in his tearoom, stockinged legs crossed delicately over one another, idly reading the newspaper set on the table in front of her. She looks up when he enters and smiles. She’s got a pleasantly round face, set off by an angular jaw, and sharp cheekbones.

Luca takes a few more steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “The fuck are you doing inside my room?”

“You’re a hard man to get an audience with,” is all she says. Her hair is shorter than it was a few months ago, a more fashionable length, hitting just at the edge of her jaw. She’s got a local accent and a deeper, raspier voice than he was expecting.

They stare at each other for a moment.

Luca hums under his breath, nodding vaguely, “For good reason.”

She watches as he apparently decides the danger is less than he had expected and turns to throw his coat and hat on a chair. 

He walks towards the seating area, coming around to stand across the low table from her. Making slow, considered movements, he undoes his shoulder holster. Placing it, gun and all, on the table between them, as he slowly sits on the lounge opposite her. She doesn't even glance down at it, apparently unconcerned.

“Who are you?” He asks, pulling a toothpick from his waistcoat pocket, and placing it carefully between his lips.

“I work for the Crown,” she says, matter of fact. Changretta’s eyes narrow.

Luca takes in her navy-blue ensemble. It’s cut relatively low across her shoulders, clinging to all the right places. The colour, teamed with the dark framing of her hair, makes the light blue of her eyes almost glow. He could recognise a honeytrap when he saw one. He clears his throat lightly.

“And for an up-and-coming enterprise I believe you are acquainted with. Shelby Company Limited.” 

That he didn’t see coming.

Luca’s teeth clench down on the pick in his mouth, but the rest of his face remains impassive. She had named the Crown foremost because she didn’t particularly feel like being gunned down on the spot. This approach was still a gamble, no matter how safely she played it.

He makes a low, ‘Hm’ sound, “Well, I don’t talk to police or gypsies, so.” He motions for her to leave. She wonders if he would actually let her but stays where she is regardless.

She’s still smiling. This girl has got a fucking death wish, he thinks idly. “I’m not police,” she replies, “My agency has been watching you since your father died.”

His eyes flash in the low light of the sitting room. “My father was murdered,” Luca says, quiet but deadly.

She nods, quickly. “Since your father was murdered,” she corrects, adding, “Sorry.”

He tilts his head, watching her, “Why are you sorry? Did you have something to do with it?” He’s antagonising on purpose, trying to see what might slip. If he might have to amend his list.

She looks down at her lap, uncertain for the first time since she has been here. “No,” she replies, voice holding steady, “There are precisely three men responsible for your father’s murder.” 

His jaw clenches and unclenches rapidly, and he finds himself running one hand over the knuckles of the other. 

“You work for him,” Luca says, his voice stiff. “You here to plead for their lives?”

A knock at the door jolts them both.

How many more fucking surprises today? Luca clears his throat, and calls over his shoulder, “Yeah?”

The maid opens the door, “You had some mail arrive today, Sir,”

“Just leave it on the desk there, thanks,” he waves her off again, impatient.

The maid pauses, looking between the two of them, “Can I get you anything else, Sir?”

Luca opens his mouth to reply ‘No’, when the girl answers. 

“We’ll take some tea and biscuits,” she says smiling, exaggerated, “Thank you.” Emilia doesn’t need the maid thinking anything suspicious. She must be able to get back into the hotel, no matter how this next part of the conversation goes.

The maid nods and rushes out of the room.

He looks back at her, incredulous. The audacity. He readjusts his waistcoat slightly. “Faccia come se fosse a casa sua,” he says under his breath. _Make yourself at home._

She gives a small smile. 

“I’m not here to plead for anything,” she adds, continuing on from their previous conversation, “Or anyone.” She half shrugs. “I’m here because Tommy Shelby said he wanted me in the room on this one, not just as an informant. And, my other employers didn’t think it was such a bad idea.”

Luca cocks his head, “You say you work for the Crown, but you’re not a cop.” 

His drawl is surprisingly pleasant to listen to, she finds herself thinking. A lot of New Yorker’s were over-the-top-loud she had realised, just like their city. Not him. Luca Changretta had found more malice, more meaning in the quiet. He raises his eyebrows, apparently waiting for her to answer a question that hasn’t been asked. She decides she can wait.

He exhales, raising his hands in mock surrender, “Alright,” he gives in. “You’re area of expertise?”

“International affairs,” she replies, pragmatic, “Specifically diplomacy.” She motions between the two of them on the last word.

“Me?” He mouths, mock surprise

She tuts slightly, eyes flitting about the room, “When the head of a New York crime family dies, at the hands of a Brummie gang, certain surveillance is needed.” And despite her local accent she spits out the word ‘Brummie’ like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. “Believe it or not, the government does have a vested interest in such matters. National security and all that.” She waves her hand around in the air, vaguely.

He is silent for a moment, but his eyes crinkle in the corners and his face appears bemused for the first time. “International diplomacy, indeed,” he says, finally. 

Luca’s elbow is resting on the arm of the chair. He lifts his hand and stretches his fingers out. The gold of his rings catching her eye. “So, why tell me all this instead of continuing to—” he pauses, mimicking her vague hand gesture, “— sneak around New York, _badly_?”

She smirks, she’ll play his game.

“Sometimes it’s easier to get what you want if you’re up front about it.” She nods in his direction, “You want to kill the Shelbys: you_ tell them so_ with a black hand.” 

Luca huffs. She had not intended to come in here and make things difficult but finds herself enjoying his little moments of exasperation more, and more.

Luca makes a low sound in his throat. He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and shakes his head lightly. “I’m not buying it,” he drawls, watching her from under his lashes.

She raises her eyebrows, sitting up straighter.

“See spies are supposed to be _discreta_,” he waves his hand around, searching for another word. “Unassuming,” he settles on, in his deep New York accent. “You,” Luca points a long ringed finger at her whole getup, “I noticed you.”

An involuntary shiver runs down her spine.

“Maybe, I wanted you to notice me,” she replies, even toned. Immediately becoming hyper aware of her every muscle, every movement.

Luca laughs suddenly, it’s a deep, rumbly sound that catches her off-guard. He leans back, spreading an arm out over the back of his lounge. He was so large up close, seemingly taking up twice the space he needed to.

“And then, you followed me over here,” he says, still smirking to himself.

“I think you’ll find you followed me.” She replies, avoiding his gaze, playing with the material of her skirt. She can’t let him know that she’s enjoying this.

“Excuse me?” He takes the pick from his mouth.

“I sailed back months ago, for other matters, before you even sent the black hands.” She can feel his eyes on her, intense. “Before you called your men over from Italy and boarded your ship to Liverpool.” There, let him know how closely his movements have been watched. Get him off guard.

The maid comes back in with tea and fancy looking biscuits held out on an ornate tray. She places it on the table between them.

“Thank you,” they both say at the same time, and the maid curtsies and leaves them once more. His eyes never leave hers, assessing.

Emilia breaks away first, leaning forward, busying herself pouring the tea and milk.

“So, they both know you’re here, huh? Both King and Country?” He asks, finally, twirling the toothpick in his fingers. Emilia sips her tea and nods, making a small affirmative noise. 

“Well,” she corrects, “probably not _the _King, but definitely one of his many underlings.” 

He carries on like she hadn’t said anything. “Tell me, what does Thomas Shelby think you’re doing here?” Luca rasps out the name, like it pains him.

  
  
“Spreading false information, planted by him, under the alibi of the government.”

  
  
“And, what does the King’s underling think you’re doing?” Was he enjoying this too?

“Informing on the Blinders. In a, uh— the enemy of my enemy is my friend sort of capacity.” It comes easy, because it’s the truth.

“Hmm,” Luca rubs his jaw idly, “And, what _are _you doing here?”

“Having tea and biscuits,” she pops a biscuit into her mouth, and chews deliberately.

Luca watches her, scrutinising. She was good at this, confident in the very least. This was her day job. “You got a name?”

“Emilia Turner.” Easy.

“Emilia?” He repeats, drawing it out. Almost like he’s trying it on. She nods. “And, you know me,” Luca says, self-assured, gesturing to himself.

Emilia flutters her lashes at him, “Pleasure, Mr. Changretta.” His eyes flash.

“And, you want to sell me information on both of them?” He cocks his head, his eyebrows drawing together in suspicion. “You know, I don’t trust a single fucking one of you limeys,” he almost chuckles.

“You don’t have to,” she half shrugs, draining the last of her tea.

Luca tilts his head back, considering for a long minute. “Sorry, Ms. Turner,” he clasps his hands together, “I don’t work with the law. It’s a code where I’m from.”

Emilia clears her throat. “I know,” she places her cup back on the table, and stands. “But you might want to rethink that. Because Tommy Shelby _does _work with the law, Mr. Changretta. He owns half the fucking cops in this part of the country. I could be —” she pauses inhaling a little, and strategically, straightening her skirt, “— useful to you.” She gazes down at him.

Luca doesn’t reply, just leans back. Letting his eyes meander up her form, in an almost lewd manner, before settling on her bright blue, cat-like ones. Apparently completely at his leisure. 

She sucks her teeth briefly, breaking eye contact with him, “Okay.” She gathers her purse from beside her and moves around the table, heading towards the doorway. Luca scoffs a slight laugh.

“Prove it.”

Emilia stops and turns. Luca’s head is half turned as he calls out over the back of the lounge to her retreating figure.

“How do I get to Tommy Shelby?”

Out the corner of his eye he sees her grin, wide, “Easy.”

* * *

She gives Changretta what he wants, a private audience with Tommy Shelby, and then doesn’t hear anything for days. She’s almost given up on the Italian, and is contemplating how to re-enter the situation, without getting herself on a hitlist. If she wasn’t already. Until, early one morning, she draws the curtains of her home, and her heart rate doubles, as she finds the man himself sitting in her back courtyard. 

He’s dressed to the nines, in his usual dark, pinstriped suit and hat. His legs are crossed, one hand drumming the metal top of the table in front of him. He appears entirely too comfortable to be sitting on a wrought-iron outdoor table setting that she knew was painful at best to be seated at.

He looks up at her through the window, and waves his palm, a little half-hearted wave. She can see his breath curling out in the cold air around him.

She’s still in her pyjama slip. She holds her index finger up to him. _One minute_. He nods in return, as she looks around for her dressing gown, a coat, anything to put on and keep the cold out.

She walks out to meet him in the courtyard not a full minute later, having thrown on some untied boots and her thick winter coat that was hanging by the door.

He watches her approach, face unreadable. “I was going to let myself in, but I didn’t think that would be polite.”

She hides her smile, wrapping her coat around herself more firmly. “You’re right, it wouldn’t have been.” Her voice is still croaky from sleep.

He grins, popping a toothpick into his mouth. He motions towards the metal chair next to him, “Sit down, why don’t you?” He drawls, all one word.

Emilia balks at the idea of being asked to do anything in her own yard but sits regardless. The iron cold against her lower half even through the coat. She draws her legs in tightly.

Luca watches her idly, “Looked you up,” he says, “You don’t exist. You’re a ghost.” He whispers over the last word and raises his eyebrows at her.

She shrugs, “I’m sitting right here.”

He smirks in reply. “If you work for them, and you got here before me, why didn’t you warn them?” He asks, because it still doesn’t entirely line up in his mind.

Emilia hears the implied ‘Why did you let one of them die?’ loud and clear. It’s too early for this kind of shit, she thinks, which is probably why he’s here. “I knew you were coming to Birmingham, so I got here,” she sighs, “Couldn’t know you were going to send the hands, until when you did. Figured I’d bide my time.” 

This one might be entirely fucking crazy, he thinks. “You know,” he spreads his hands, open palms, “I am not used to someone giving up all their secrets so easily.” 

Showing their hand as it were, she thinks, watching the black hand tattoo on his wrist. “Yeah,” she replies, bristling a little, her voice low, “I’ve heard your people developed other methods for getting someone to give up their secrets.”

Luca chuckles darkly, caught off guard.

“If I had _anything _to hide from you, Mr. Changretta, I would not be here. Easiest way to not get caught out in a lie is to not tell any.” She shrugs one shoulder. Her body language is giving nothing away, her arms still wrapped around herself, but her words ring true.

He resumes his drumming on the table. “Still,” is all he says, letting his head tilt away from her.

“I have more loyalty to my actual job than I do to the Shelbys.” It wasn’t technically a lie, for a girl with no prospects, her career had given her more opportunities, the chance to see new places, new people. The chance to lead an extraordinary life. If she had stayed, gone back and just worked for the Blinders she probably would have ended up like Lizzie. Content, but cowed.

Luca pulls an ‘_I guess_,’ sort of face. “And, your government wants to— what? Create chaos?”

“My government wants to eliminate the Shelby’s before Tommy can blackmail them into giving him a fucking knighthood.” She laughs, open and loud in the cold morning air. “Before he gets too big for his boots,” she clarifies, “Politics and crime, they’re the same thing.” 

Yeah, definitely crazy, but that has never bothered Luca before, so he asks the only thing left to ask, “What would you have me do next?”

Her eyes meet his, light meeting dark. She ponders on it for a moment. “What I said the other day, about a common enemy? You already got in touch with Sabini, but the Shelby’s have _a lot _of enemies.”

* * *

They set up a schedule and fall into a natural rhythm. She devotes her time between the hospital to visit Michael, the hotel to visit Luca, and the shop to check in with Tommy. Absurdly out of all, she felt like she was gaining the most, getting the most done in her encounters with Changretta. She only ever meets him at the hotel, it’s a long commute from Birmingham, but ultimately safer for both of them that way. And, it’s easy, surprisingly easy, to sell out her only family to the Italian mafia. But Emilia is all too aware that things never stay easy for long, especially where the Shelby’s are concerned.

Luca tells his men he’s got a man on the inside of the Peaky Blinders. Specifically, doesn’t tell them it’s a woman. Specifically, doesn’t tell them it’s a woman he wouldn’t mind seeing more of, every time that they meet.

She comes to his room the day after Arthur is attacked in the factory. The bed in the corner is neatly made, like it hasn’t been slept in. She finds Luca in thought, standing just behind his desk. It’s early but he’s dressed immaculately, as usual. He’s wearing a dark suit, gold pocket watch glittering up from his waistcoat, and he’s replaced his usual tie with a silky ascot. He’s got no jacket on and his shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing off his tattoos, and the lean muscles that they wrap around. Her eyes trail the delicate rosary tattooed around his wrist and forearm. Overall, it’s a good look on him, she finds herself thinking.

He catches her looking and must read her expression.

“Well,” he spreads his arms, showing off the look, “It is the birthplace of Shakespeare, I’m just trying to look the part.” He tugs on the lapels of his waistcoat, proudly.

He’s in a good mood. He doesn’t know yet.

Emilia bites the inside of her cheek. “The cravat might be a bit much,” she mutters, as she sits down in the chair opposite the desk.

Luca’s eyes narrow and he lets his head bob to the side, but as he watches her, his mouth twitches, he’s amused.

She rummages through her bag, producing a handful of files. “Here’s some of Tommy’s official files,” she holds them out to Luca. 

He moves around to her side and takes them, rifling through them lightly, as he leans back against the desk in front of her. 

“There’s a fair amount of —” she hesitates, wondering how to word it, “— _personal _info that can be gleaned from these documents.” The way he’s positioned himself forces her to look up at him. “In addition to what your mother has given you, I’d say this is a reasonably comprehensive overview of the man.”

She’s sitting too straight, too still. Her voice is tight, and her manner professional. All the playfulness of their earlier meetings gone. He finds himself missing it. Luca holds the files closed in front of him, and crosses one ankle over the other, giving her an appraising look. 

“You look nervous,” he says in a low voice, “You don’t have to be.” 

He knows he really should be focussed on things other than the tension emanating from her form. But if he was being honest with himself, he had noticed her all the way back at the bar in New York, and he didn’t think he could stop now if he tried. Had noticed her ass on the high bar stool, her long legs. There was an elegance, a confidence in her movements. It was disarming, _she _was. And, it was missing today. 

She shakes her head lightly, her short hair swishing about her jaw. He likes that she doesn’t curl it, just lets it fall in its natural wave. “Not nervous, necessarily,” she says slowly, letting her eyes wander up his long form. “I’m more curious as to how you’re going to take the next bit of news.”

He raises his eyebrows, the rest of him remaining still.

She clears her throat, best just go for it, “Arthur is still alive, and your men didn’t come home yesterday because they are… gone.” She hesitates over the last word, ‘dead’ seems a little callous at the time.

His face falls, and he seems to age before her eyes. His sleeplessness catching up with him all at once. 

Emilia had happened to be dining at Ada’s the previous day, when Arthur Shelby had come stumbling in literally red-handed; covered in blood, and paint, and God knows what else. He had not been happy to see Emilia, either. Ranting and raving as they cleaned him up, that she should have known, should have told them, and ‘What good was she?’ That one hardly even hurt these days, she had heard it so often.

She keeps her eyes on Luca’s tense frame, “I came as soon as I could. Not sure Tommy even knows yet.”

Luca’s head droops, he closes his eyes and holds the bridge of his nose tightly between his thumb and forefinger. “Gone?” He asks, through gritted teeth.

“I saw Arthur, afterwards. He mentioned there were going to be ‘no bodies to _worry _about’.”

Luca murmurs something in Italian and, looking skyward, crosses himself. 

He pushes off the desk and moves back around the other side, dropping into the armchair there. He rests his temple on his fingers and looks back at her. He looks— sad. Emilia wasn’t prepared for that. 

She leans forward, holding his eye contact. “I know you probably thought, 'Small time English gangsters, should be pretty easy to kill',” she starts, because Luca needs to know this, “But I’ve seen these men cheat death a thousand times.” Luca begins to tap his fingers on the side of his face, his mouth a thin straight line. 

He’d cheated death a few times himself.

Emilia continues, “They went to France, and got to come home. They want to live.” She punctuates her last four words seriously. She’s not sure Luca can say the same for himself, not sure what he had left besides his vendetta. And maybe, having something to fight for was half the challenge.

He inhales deeply. “Thanks for letting me know,” he says slowly.

She nods, taking this as her signal to leave. He watches the swish of her skirt as she gets up, the bow of her head.

“Emilia,” he calls out, and the sound sends an unexpected thrill down her spine. She turns back, halfway to the door. 

“Thank you,” he says, genuinely. There’s a tenderness to his parting words that she’s not expecting. There was something to be said for doing all your own intel and background work on a mark, to feel like you have the measure of them. But it was something else entirely to be faced with that person in relatively close quarters every other day. Every meeting with Luca Changretta was showing her something new and surprising about the man.

She was beginning to look forward to their meetings. Damn him.

* * *

Emilia almost doesn’t see him, she’s in such a hurry to get to Changretta’s hotel. As her car rounds the corner to the High Street to drop her off a couple blocks away from the entrance as usual, she spies a familiar face in the Stratford town centre. Average height, tawny brown hair, nothing specifically remarkable about him, but it’s her job to notice things. And she does not miss the way he pointedly does not look at her as she slows down to pass the shopfront he’s lingering in. What the fuck is Anderson doing in Stratford-upon-Avon?

She doubles her pace to the hotel and is up the stairs letting herself into the room before she knows it, Luca apparently nowhere to be seen.

“Mr. Changretta?” She calls out. No answer. She hangs her coat up and wanders further into the room, “Luca?” 

“Here,” she hears him call from the other end of the suite. She follows the voice and notices it emanated from a room she hadn’t been into. What she had assumed must be the bathroom. The door is wide open, so she steps through. 

As she enters the vast, golden-tiled room, the first thing she notices is a rich, woody aroma permeating the steamy air. The second thing is a very wet, very naked Luca Changretta sitting in the deep, matching gold bathtub. 

“Oh, shi—”, Emilia stops in her tracks, nearly dropping everything in her arms. She’s going to turn about face and walk right back out, maybe pretend this had never happened, maybe move countries. But she notices the small smile playing on Luca’s face and its assuredness stays her. Today was already off to a strange start, why not continue it, she figures.

“Sorry,” she stutters out, “I just assumed you were decent.”

“Not in a long time, Darlin’,” Luca drawls.

The tub is centred in the room and is deep enough that water comes up to his mid chest. There’s soap clouding the water so she cannot see into it, thank God, but it does not stop her from taking in the expanse of olive skin still available on show. There were more tattoos, too. Dotted here and there, up his arms, scrawling their way to the dark cross inked into his neck.

She skims them all, not wanting to be seen leering. More Catholic imagery, a Madonna and child by the looks of it, some names and phrases, what appeared to be a coat of arms, and even a memento mori. She could tell her face was going red, as his grin kept getting bigger and bigger.

Can’t have that, she thinks. She looks around, the toilet is a couple feet to the side of the tub, she closes the lid and sits herself down, crossing her legs. She opens the diary in her lap and looks up.

Luca’s watching her, eyebrows raised.

“What? You invited me in, I assume you’re ready to talk business.”

He shrugs, spreading his arms out over the sides of the tub. He leans his head back, letting his eyes fall closed, “Talk to me, Doll.” Luca was in a surprisingly chipper mood.

It’s more than a little shocking to see the man who was always so put together, so immaculate, seemingly without his armour on. And he did wear a suit like it was no one’s business. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him, which is somehow so much worse, that this man doesn’t even need the protection of his slick suits to intimidate, to unnerve.

She adds it to the list of things she knows about him, to the list of things she absolutely didn’t need to know. Like the fact that Luca Changretta bathes with his jewellery on.

She drags her eyes away from the gold-chained cross hanging around his neck and looks at her notes, adopting her most pragmatic official-sounding voice. “I have a message for you, a ‘reply’, I was told,” she pauses, a little bit to watch for his reaction, a little bit for dramatic effect. Luca keeps his eyes closed but frowns partially. “Polly Gray would like to meet with you. In person, somewhere public.”

Luca’s eyes snap open. He lets out a troubled, “Hmm.”

“She wouldn’t say about what,” Emilia continues. Something she’s cooked up, sure to throw a spanner in the works, no doubt.

He peers over at her, through half-lidded eyes, “You have an idea?”

“You can never be sure with that one.” Or you for that matter, she thinks idly. Emilia leans forward, putting an elbow on her knee and resting her head in her hand. “You put something specific in her letter, something neither you nor she is willing to disclose.” Luca runs a wet hand through his already slick hair, pressing it down at the back. She unashamedly watches the muscles of his bicep flex as his arm bends. She drums her fingers along her face, carrying on, “It’s fine, we’re all playing our cards close to our chest.” And you two are dealing under the table, she thinks, but it’s still fine, Emilia’s confident she’ll find out what it is sooner rather than later.

Luca looks up at the steam curling around the ceiling and contemplates.

“There’s a bar on Bridge street, just outside of town,” he waves his hand, splashing the water in the tub around slightly, “I’ve been there before. Should be safe neutral ground.”

“Well, alright then.” Is all she says. She decides it's time to leave. Finding herself focusing more on the black ink scrawled across his form, than what he was saying.

“Any words of advice?” He asks, as she’s on her way out.

Emilia stands at the foot of the bathtub, Luca completely relaxed, smirking back up at her. Advice on a meeting with Pol? “Yeah, don’t.”

Emilia trots down the steps outside the hotel, her mind still on the meeting she had just had. Her mind still on the broad shoulders and olive skin and shark-like smile.

And, — she halts on the footpath, right next to an alley because that had definitely been what she thought it had been. “Anderson,” she says out loud, not bothering to turn back.

He sidles up alongside her a moment later. “Morning, Em.”

“Is it?” She glares. She was nearly willing to dismiss this morning’s sighting as coincidence, but this was too much. He was here specifically for her.

He pulls out his timepiece to check, “Well, actually n—”

“Shut the fuck up,” she turns on the tawny-haired man. “What are you doing here?” She demands, all too aware that she was still in view of the hotel and that Luca's men were all over this town. She knows they should keep walking but her desire to spend as little time as possible with Anderson overpowers it. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets, nonchalant. “Would have thought that would be obvious by now,” his thick northern Irish accent grates on her nerves. She shoves him back into the alley, out of view of the street. This close she can see he’s got a black eye, a real shiner. It’s not out of the ordinary for Anderson, last time she had seen him he had been sporting a broken arm. She’s mostly kind of jealous of whoever gave it to him.

“Careful,” he grins, leaning back against the alley wall, completely unperturbed by her manhandling of him.

Emilia crosses her arms, glaring over at him, and waits for him to explain.

“Just here to keep an eye out,” he shrugs, “What with your Thomas seeking help from outside sources. There are lots of forces at play here, not even including you and me.”

She doesn’t know what outside forces he’s talking about, but she doesn’t like the way his brow arches as his voice lilts over _‘at play’_.

Emilia refrains from rolling her eyes, but only just. “London?” She asks.

“Among many,” Anderson replies, fishing a cigarette out of the tin in his jacket pocket.

He’s not going to give her anything, the asshole, he was just riling her up.

“How did you get to be so annoying?” Emilia mumbles under her breath.

He offers her a cigarette which she pointedly ignores. “Trained, just like you,” he replies, chuckling, and lighting his own cigarette. The worst part is he did train like her, and if she saw him it meant he wanted to be seen. Emilia tightens her arms over her chest a little, she didn’t know what to do about this. She looks down at her feet, thinking for a moment.

“You having fun up there?” Anderson asks, motioning with the lit end back up at the hotel.

Emilia huffs a surprised laugh at the ground and takes a step closer to the man in front of her. She looks up at him from under her furrowed brow, jabbing a finger at his chest, “This is _my _job, Anderson.” 

He breathes a puff of smoke in her face. 

“I don’t want to fucking see you here again,” she finishes.

Emilia glares, before stalking off, leaving her colleague standing alone in the alleyway. She wasn’t getting to the bottom of this anytime soon.

* * *

“How’s your man?” Luca asks, first thing their next meeting. He’s lounging on the sofa in the sitting room, too tall for it by half, his feet hanging over the end. Apparently on a mission to be as reclined as possible, for every meeting they have. She knows it’s supposed to be a subtle intimidation technique, a gesture of confidence, of surety in his standing, but all Emilia can see is an obedient animal showing its belly.

Emilia carefully keeps her face blank, sitting across the small coffee table from him.

“The one from the other day,” he waves his hand around, “The one with the black eye.” He says it with a dark undertone to his voice, like he had been the one to give it to Anderson, like he had wanted to, even though she knows that’s impossible.

She inclines her head slightly, “What about him?” She keeps her voice impassive. If he had been watching that closely, what else had he seen?

“You didn’t mention a man in your life,” Luca says, like that’s an answer. Emilia stays silent, trying to gauge his motivations here.

Luca continues, “Now, I know he’s not a Shelby, ‘cause we got a list of those about a mile long.” Not that long, she thinks. “And, correct me if I’m mistaken but covert operatives, such as yourself, aren’t usually ones for public daytime meetings. At least not in the middle of the street.” 

Shit, she thinks. Fucking Anderson, even the Americans thought they were slipping now. 

“Luca,” she jumps in, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. “We here to talk Shelby’s or no?”

He lets it slide.

He pointedly doesn’t tell her how his meeting with Polly went. And she doesn’t ask, apparently okay with whatever level of disclosure he is willing to give. Inside, she’s desperate to know but asking too many questions gives too much away. She had learned that the hard way and couldn’t afford to slip like that right now. She was barely holding on to her grasp as it was, worried that it was beginning to show.

And with how close Luca was sitting to her now, it was definitely going to show. She had laid a map out on the coffee table, pointing out the general Blinders territory, so he could familiarise himself with it. He had jumped up and moved to sit around her side of the table immediately. The same rich, warm smell of the air from the bathroom hits her. He points at the map, his arm cutting across her, and it’s all she can do to keep her hard-won composure. He was bordering on inappropriately close.

He leans forward and their knees bump. She hasn’t decided whether it was entirely intentional or happenstance just yet, but it was a reoccurring theme of their meetings these days.

“He’s not my man,” she says finally, on her way out. Luca gets up to see her to the door.

He smirks down at her, “But you want him to be.” 

Maybe once upon a time, Emilia muses.

She stands in the open door, shaking her head. She can hardly believe she’s even having this conversation with him. “He’s not my type,” she replies, deadpan.

Luca rests one hand on the door high above her head, “What’s not your type?” In his eyes, a playful gleam. What is he hoping for here? She wonders, not for the first time.

Emilia looks up at his arm above her, at the way he’s deliberately placed himself in her space, again. She thinks for a second, “Cocky.”

Luca’s face splits in a massive grin, “Now, I don’t believe that for a second.”

She grins back at him, shrugs offhandedly before making her way down the hall. She hazards a glance back right as she turns the corner to the stairs, and he’s still there, silently watching her go.

* * *

When Michael’s attacked in the hospital, Emilia knows she shouldn’t be shocked, but can’t help it. She had assumed she was more in the know than this. Rookie mistake, Turner.

She hadn’t told Tommy about the setup, guessing he would figure out Mrs. Ross’ true intentions on his own. But she, like Tommy, had missed Luca’s obvious double bluff. The second she hears word that Michael’s okay, she’s on her way over to the hotel. It doesn’t occur to her that she might get there before him.

She waits for about an hour before he arrives.

Luca storms into the room, there’s blood on his hands, and a wild look in his eyes. He’s lost his hat somewhere and is in the process of throwing his coat forcefully onto the desk.

“Where have you been?” She demands of him.

He's not surprised to see her in his room. “Where the fuck have I been?” He stomps past her, heading to the sink in the bathroom. He rolls up his sleeves, washing the errant blood off his hands. “I’ve been getting fucking shot at, on a fucking bridge,” he grabs a towel, drying his hands, his actions belaying the fervent rage colouring his voice. “And now,” Luca turns back to her, brandishing the towel, “I gotta send two more of my men home in caskets!” His voice turns up at the end. 

They stare at each other, their faces mirroring displeasure, Luca breathing hard through his nose.

"What bridge?" She asks, finally.

Luca scoffs and turns away, pacing around the room. "The only fucking bridge outta town," he replies, throwing a hand up in exasperation.

Emilia knows the one, even from his vague description. She had passed over it herself earlier in the day, without any hassle. A roadblock set up that quickly, that efficiently, could only really be one person. Was this what Anderson was talking about? Today's events had done nothing to halt her growing paranoia.

She eyes the blood on the towel, “Who did they kill?”

He follows her gaze and throws the garment over to the other side of the room, needing to be rid of it. “Killed Frankie,” Luca spits out, “My driver, he's my fuckin’ cousin.” He’s still pacing slowly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, the tension coming off him in waves, “Well, second cousin. Slit his throat.”

Emilia is quietly stunned, she had been mad about Michael, concerned for her own cousin. And Luca's had just been killed right in front of him. Of course, Luca didn’t know, couldn’t know how much Michael meant to her. 

He continues, talking about the accuracy of the bullets that had killed his other man, that had also shot the police officer there.

“Now _that’s _interesting.” She leans against the back of the couch, crossing her ankles. 

Luca stops pacing and looks over at her angrily. “Sorry,” she clarifies, “But slitting his throat doesn’t really sound like Tommy, and shooting an innocent police officer definitely doesn’t sound like Tommy, or any of his men, which means — “

Luca face is still an unimpressed mask.

“Look, if it was someone that efficient, I think I can take a guess as to who it was. Aberama Gold; proper old school traveller, lives in a caravan the whole bit. He's got a bad reputation around these parts,” she rattles off, only half trying to appease Luca after his anger. “Probably why him and Tommy get along.”

He turns away again, seemingly not even listening, rubbing one hand over his mouth. “Ambushed by gypsies out in the fucking open,” he shakes his head.

The accusation from him rankles in a way she hadn't expected. The implication that she should have known, should have told him. She had put up with that for too long elsewhere. Emilia pushes off the lounge.

“If he had someone on your trail that quick that means he was ready for you as well,” she snaps at him. “They know you've got to take one of a handful of ways out of the city.” She takes a few steps forward.

Luca watches her out the corner of his eye, “And?” He has the gall to sound uninterested.

She throws her hands up in exasperation, “Don’t fucking go next time?” 

Luca scoffs, muttering under his breath in Italian.

Something else is bothering her. “How did you even know which hospital he was in?” She asks, she was on a roll now, might as well go for broke. And the lingering thought in the back of her mind that she might have led him there, right to her cousin, is too much to handle right now.

Luca’s eyes roll skywards for a second before he answers. “Same way I knew the nurse would let us in, that there was only gonna be one guy guarding.”

She waits with bated breath.

“People talk,” Luca finishes casually, throwing one hand out.

It’s Emilia’s turn to roll her eyes. She was nearly positive he hadn’t had anyone follow her since that first meeting, but she can’t say it without giving away that she didn’t have a good reason to be visiting Michael as often as she was.

Luca turns on her sharply, “What? You think I couldn’t come up with that? A lousy double-cross, like I’m some two-bit gangster —”

“You’re the one who just got snuck up on right out in the open,” she cuts him off harshly. It stops him in his tracks. 

He frowns, his mouth slightly parted. “No thanks to you,” he mumbles quietly, but there’s nothing behind it, like he doesn’t really mean it.

“I’m not in his fucking head, they don’t tell me everything, alright?” She continues, sighing, “Just like you don’t.” Emilia crosses her arms, chewing the inside of her cheek to stop from going any further.

His face drops a little.

Luca tilts his face down to her, and she hadn’t realised how close she had gotten to him until now; they’re standing mere inches apart. She juts her chin out, holding his stare. 

“Maybe I could have helped if I knew what you were planning.” She waits a beat, then earnestly: “What am I fucking doing here, Luca?”

His eyes are half-lidded, and he presses his lips together, like he wants her to be doing something else entirely. A look she had seen on his face more and more lately.

He doesn’t answer immediately. 

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit impressed. People don’t usually talk back to him, and she’d pushed back, she’d finally gotten mad. He’d fished an emotion other than her usual ambivalent composure out and suddenly found he wanted more. 

Luca would also be lying if he said he hadn’t seen it going a little differently, the first time she was waiting for him in his room, at the end of a long day. 

He looks down at her wide eyes, and endearingly flushed face. He had forgotten just how slight she was compared to him. Her natural presence gave her the impression of being taller than she actually was, but this close it was undeniable.

“You know,” he starts, rubbing his jaw lightly, “I’m not supposed to— could be fucking excommunicated just for _talking _to you.” He keeps his voice low and serious, “My guys, they don’t know what you do.”

He made it sound sordid in that tone of voice. It gives her pause, and ashamedly she found she didn’t mind being his dirty little secret.

“I told them you work for the Blinders, that’s it,” he finishes.

She tries to keep her face still, but she’s sure the confusion registers on it, especially this close. She knew he wasn’t joking about there being a code, but was it really the reason he hadn’t given her anything useful, anything she could use, in all their weeks of meeting? Why meet with her at all then?

“You and I want the same thing,” she tries. And the building heat in his eyes forces her to clarify, “You want to not get shot at, I want to help.” 

Emilia shakes her head, laughing a little despite herself. “If I’m not _helping _you, or him, and I apparently don’t know a fucking thing that’s going on,” she raises her hands in exasperation. “I might as well go home. Might as well sit this one out.” She finishes and props her hands on her hips, looking up at him.

It shocks Luca how much he really doesn't want that to happen. “I need a drink,” he mutters to himself, turning away from her finally, breaking their stare first.

She could sympathise. 

He loosens his tie efficiently, tossing it down onto a table. It shouldn’t draw her eye as quickly as it does. She watches him wander over to the liquor cabinet on the far side of the room, pour himself a glass of something and chuck it back.

Emilia waits, hands still on hips.

“She agreed to make a deal with me,” he says quietly, pouring himself another, “Spare the kid’s life.” 

Emilia’s awash with emotion, relief for Michael’s sake, but can’t help the overriding sudden flash of anger, of resentment. A mother’s love. She had thought she was over all that. She looks over at Luca; a man here for the exact same reason. Wonders, if she had had the same, would she have ended up here, in the lion’s den regardless?

“In exchange for what?” She asks, finally.

“Tommy.” That, she can’t even be mad about.

She stares at him wide-eyed.

“Yeah, pretty sure I had the same expression when she told me.” He sips his drink, casually.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Polly.” She puts her head in her hand.

“Decided the kid was the best way to get it back to her,” Luca continues, “Little intimidation, keep her honest.”

Yeah, good luck, Emilia thinks. That also means Michael probably knows by now. 

“I’ve got to go see Michael, see what he knows.”

She starts towards the door, to gather her things.

“No,” Luca all but exclaims, then catching himself, continues in a more measured voice, “Wait, c’mon, it’s late. Stay a while.”

He reaches out and touches her arm as she passes by him. And in truth it’s nothing more than a finger or two grazing her inner elbow, but he’s never touched her bare skin before, it’s enough to stop her in her tracks.

“It’s been a long day, for both of us.” He keeps his hand there.

Then, almost tenderly, “Have a drink with me.”

* * *

Have a drink, he had said. Here was a man who was used to getting everything he wanted with the slightest tilt of his head. A simple drink is all it was. And Emilia found, she didn’t mind letting him get his way. 

Now, thanks to that, here they were practically sitting on top of each other they were so close. He had left his waistcoat somewhere around the room, and they had both kicked off their shoes. They were on the lounge in the sitting room, shoulders pressed together, drinks in hand. Emilia was beginning to feel pleasantly buzzed.

“You know your name’s actually Italian.” She’s not sure what they were just talking about, but the change in subject, from Luca, seems abrupt.

She chuckles, the hand gesture, and dropped initial letter on _‘talian_, always get her. “Turner?” She asks, playing dumb.

He snorts, “Emilia. It’s a region, named after a, uh— consul, Marcus,” he gestures down her body, “_Aemilius_.” 

He angles his head nearer hers, “In America they would shorten it to Mia.” The words come out a low grumble. Through their pressed together shoulders, the sound reverberates through her own body.

The nickname fills her with a warm, fuzzy feeling she's sure isn't the booze. A memory from her childhood. A female voice.

“Anybody ever call you Mia before?”

“Hmm,” she frowns, the memory nearly impossible to hold on to. “Yeah, I think so,” her voice comes out strained.

She takes another sip from her glass, clearing her throat, and turning to face him again. His eyes watch the movement of her mouth and throat as she swallows. “I always just thought, because of the spelling, that my mum was a Shakespeare fan.”

Luca makes a sound in the back of his throat. He's right up on her now.

His eyes flicker around, as he considers that. “Does that make me Iago?”

She guesses it does.

This close she can see his eyes are actually much lighter than she had initially suspected. More of a green hazel than brown at all. There’s something in that. 

She can also see he’s never going to make the next move. Would be content to leave her hanging here forever. Her lips tingle in anticipation for what she’s about to do. And honestly, they’ve been skirting around this too long as it is.

She surges forward, closing the distance between them, and presses her lips against his. It’s too hard and quick, and she retreats just as quickly as she had advanced. Sitting up straighter, she looks at Luca, trying to assess the damage. 

His face is a picture of composure, while Emilia can feel her heart beating in her throat. He looks unruffled, if a little bit charmed, like he had been waiting for this the whole time. 

Slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook her, Luca takes her glass from her hand and places it, with his own, on the table in front of them. Then, even slower, he raises his hand bringing it to rest on the side of her face. The heat of his palm is a comfort, and she turns her face slightly into it. He moves forward, his eyes roaming her entire face before settling on her lips, as he closes the distance between them again. 

The kiss is warm and soft, but brief, his lips moving against hers for only a few moments before he pulls back again. This time he stays close, letting their noses rub against each other. His eyes delve into hers, as he brings his other hand up to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. Settling his hand on the hinge of her jaw there, Luca effectively cradles her head in his large hands. She shivers at the intimacy of it, it had been a long while since someone looked at her like this. Luca’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he whispers, “_Mia Cara_,” against her mouth before kissing her again.

She’s never heard anyone say it like that before. Reverent.

A flood of warmth rushes through her, and she opens her mouth to him, deepening the kiss. She reaches out to him, pushing his suspenders down his strong shoulders and arms in an effort to get closer. She’s pulling and pushing at him all over, apparently very handsy when it comes to this. Emilia grips the muscles of his arms, moaning into his mouth when he flexes in return. Luca laughs into her mouth, “Okay.” He presses her back into the lounge, murmuring into her lips again, “Okay.” 

Luca settles his weight over her and continues to explore her mouth with his. Her mouth is soft and reciprocate, and just like her legs, opens so nicely to accommodate him.

He tightens his hands in her hair when he feels her deft fingers around his abdomen. Grasping his shirt in her hands, she pulls at it, quickly untucking it, and getting her hands inside. She unbuttons it nimbly and runs her hands over the warm skin, through the smattering of hair there.

Luca pulls back to look at her, and Emilia grins up at him, the minx. 

“You sure about this?” He asks, his voice gravelly. He asks because he has to, has to know if she’s sure about him, about this situation. 

She’s a little shocked by the question. Nothing in Luca’s personality or interactions with her had ever indicated he would be anything other than completely respectful in this regard, but still. She was not used to men hesitating, to men questioning, when it came to these things. She’s a little turned on by it, if she’s being honest.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she tilts her head up and sucks on his lower lip. “Are you?” She throws back at him, because it can’t hurt to be sure, too.

Luca’s brows pull up in the middle, and he murmurs, “Dio,” staring intently at her reddened lips. He brings their lips together again, meeting open-mouthed, “Sì.” This time trailing kisses all along her cheek and down her neck, mumbling, “Sì, sì, certo sì,” into her skin the whole way. And every single one makes Emilia shiver.

He makes his way down her body and runs his hands up her stockinged legs from his place situated between them.

“Hm, what is this?” He asks, voice lilting, amused.

His hands have reached the top of her thighs, and subsequently the knife stuffed into the top of her right stocking. It’s a small dagger, no bigger than a letter opener. She had been wearing one for nearly as long as she could remember. 

“Huh, oh yeah,” she looks down, watching him carefully running his fingers over the blade through the sheer material. “I forgot that was there,” she mumbles.

Luca laughs into the material bunched around her hips. “Remind me to get you a gun.”

She grins down at him, “Oh, I keep that in my purse. Besides,” she pulls the knife out of her stocking, “Knives are better for close quarters.” She slowly turns it towards him. Luca’s eyes light up and, holding her gaze, he tilts his head back, exposing the skin of his neck. She shudders, and for a brief second considers pressing the blade up against his jaw, against the cross tattoo of his neck. Just resting it there, let him feel how quickly she could do it. 

She decides against it, his immediate surrender satisfying enough for now. She goes to toss the knife aside and he grabs her hand. 

“No, leave it on,” he all but growls, and together they place the dagger back into the hem of her stocking. Luca’s hand carries on upward, his palm nearly spanning half the circumference of her thigh, as he continues to expose more of her. On her bare flesh now, his hands feel too warm by half, and when his mouth follows their path, kissing his way across the fleshy tops of her thighs, she feels as though she could combust. 

“Luca,” she rasps out. Emilia digs her hands into his hair, subconsciously pulling him to where she wants his mouth most. 

He kisses his way up to her underwear, mouthing his way over the satiny material and inhaling the heady scent there. He runs his hands up over her hips and, looking up to make eye contact with her, drags the material down her thighs, pulling them off. She’s completely exposed and can feel herself getting wetter under Luca’s intent gaze, but he does not linger. He leaves her untouched as he moves back up her body, burying his face in her neck, mouthing at the skin there instead. 

Emilia groans, tilting her head back to give him more access. She gets her hands inside his open shirt and drags her nails lightly across his lower back in frustration, “You’re a tease,” she grits out. She feels him grin into her skin, apparently pleased with that assessment, as he positions his hips between her open legs, running one hand up and down her stockings. Even the pressure of his clothed hips against her core feels amazing right now, and she grinds into him trying to get more friction.

Luca inhales sharply, lifts himself up on one elbow and stares down at her. Her icy blue eyes are blown wide, her lips are swollen, and her neck is coming up red where his face was just buried. Her dark hair fanned out on the cushion below her is quickly becoming a mess, and he definitely wants to see how far he can push her. 

Luca’s hand trails back up the inside of her thigh, he briefly rubs the soft skin at the hollow where her thigh meets her crotch, before he runs a finger up her slit. Emilia gasps, loudly. He noses across her cheek, watching her expression, as he replaces one finger with two. Tracing up and down her wetness before he settles them at her clit, sliding his fingertips over the bundle of nerves. Emilia’s reaction is immediate, her mouth falls open in a silent moan, and she throws her head back. Luca mouths his way across her jaw, lightly nipping, he could watch this all day. 

Her nails dig into the flesh of his arm, as he continues his circling movements. But just as she feels herself climbing, Luca changes his course again. This time plunging his two long fingers inside her. It pulls all the breath out of her, and she snaps her eyes closed.

Luca moves his fingers in and out of her in an exquisite rhythm. Like he’s learning her, committing it all to memory, and when he sucks at the sensitive skin just below her ear at the same time, she clenches hard around his hand with a moan. He groans into her neck in response and doubles his speed.

She uses one hand to pull his face back down to hers, and he feels the other at the button of his trousers. She has them open swiftly and is pushing them, and his underwear, down in seconds.

Luca shudders and has to pull out of her grasp, he brings his hands up as well, holding them steady on her ribs. Emilia squirms at the sudden loss.

He makes sure they’re face to face, breathing in the same air. He inhales deeply a couple of times, letting his eyes fall closed. “Tu non sai cosa mi fai,” he breathes out, and presses a kiss to the hollow of her throat, before sitting up. She watches him go, her brows furrowing. But he sits back against the lounge and pulls his pants the rest of the way off, spreads his legs a little and holds out a hand to bring her up with him. She lets herself be pulled up and straddles his thighs, settling down against him with a small smirk.

Luca’s face mirrors hers, and he skims his hands across her thighs and bare hips, grabbing the hem of her dress along the way and pulling it up. Emilia lifts her arms to help him get it completely off. Luca throws the dress across the room. She’s not wearing a brassiere of any kind, hadn’t needed it with that dress, so Luca suddenly finds himself with a lap full of naked woman. Well, except for her thigh high stockings, which somehow only seems to enhance the visual. He sighs, taking in the sight. Emilia raises her brows expectantly, still smirking down at him.

Luca nods, like she’s right. He pulls his own shirt off his shoulders and winds his hands around her waist. He leans forward and alternates between kissing and biting his way down her neck and chest. He meanders his way across her skin, like he has all the time in the world. Emilia is more impatient as she grunts and grinds into his lap. She gets her hands in his hair, desperate to mess it up, to see it out of its usual slicked-back style.

“_Dio mio_,” he says, hushed. He’s gazing intently at something on her ribcage. Oh, she remembers.

He’s level with her ribs, which makes him level with the swirl of a tattoo she has on her side. Luca holds her arm out slightly, so he can inspect more fully. From afar it looks like a circle, with filigree, but upon closer inspection he can see it’s actually a snake eating its own tail, adorned by small, delicate flowers. The whole thing is inked in black lines and running behind it on the delicate skin of her ribs is a long, faded scar.

He sighs, looking back up to meet her eyes, a small smile playing on his face, “You’re full of secrets under here, huh? You forget about this, too?”

She kind of had, “Nobody ever sees this, so.” She lets out a breath she didn’t realise she had been holding in.

He purses his lips slightly, looks at her, then the tattoo, very deliberately. 

“It’s an Ouroboros,” she explains. She’s not sure how he’ll take it. She knew his were, for all their religious iconography, a sign of a criminal. A man who didn’t play by laws, who didn’t have to, which is why they were mostly visible. Maybe this is how he saw her now, too. Among the working class of Britain, tattoos were usually a sign of a prostitute, but among the higher classes they were a rare show of feminist strength. A hang-up from Victorian times. Neither implication bothered her, neither being entirely inaccurate, but she still couldn’t be sure where Luca stood. Even when seated upon his lap. 

“I saw one in a picture, in the tomb that Howard Carter uncovered in Egypt, but it’s also seen in other ancient cultures— it's the cyclical nature of life,” she can hear herself rambling under his dark gaze. “Something constantly destroying and recreating itself,” she stops herself rather abruptly, feeling sheepish, like she may have given too much away. She knew having an identifying mark was bad enough, but she didn’t have to give him the whole spiel.

“I know what it is,” Luca whispers. He reaches up and fits his hand over her ribs. She watches as his own tattooed hand covers the snake. The cross on his knuckles moving as his fingers trace over the scar behind it. The sight sends a full body shiver through her. “L'infinità,” he finishes, voice still a whisper, before sliding both his hands up her back and pulling her down to meet his mouth again. Her breasts press into his own hard, naked chest, and their tongues slide against each other.

Emilia gently nips at his lips, she wants more, wants more of him, wants more of everything. She trails her hands down his chest, over his various smatterings of tattoos, to where his hard cock is resting up against his stomach. She takes it in her hand, and Luca grunts into her mouth. It’s generously sized, what she would have expected from a man of his dimensions. She adds her other hand, holding and pumping with one, the other thumbing over the sensitive head. Luca’s hands grip her ass painfully tight, and he mumbles something unintelligible in Italian through hard, clenched teeth.

He lifts her up a little, and then gently pulls his cock out of her hands. He grasps it in one hand, giving it a quick pump, and rubbing it along the length of her. They moan in unison, Emilia digging her fingers into his shoulders. Luca positions himself at her entrance and looks up at Emilia’s face for confirmation.

She takes control, lowering herself down incrementally, getting about halfway before tensing her thighs and rising back up again. She repeats this move a couple of times, stretching herself out, acclimating to the feel of him. She looks down at him the whole time, mouth hanging open slightly, eyes half-lidded, it’s a beautiful sight. Luca tries to keep still, let her set a pace, but her slow press against him is its own special kind of torture. He digs his fingers into the flesh of her ass, and when she finally sinks down fully onto him, it’s all he can do not to lose it right there.

Emilia leans down and brings their mouths together, as she begins to glide up and down on his cock with merciful purpose. He moans open-mouthed into the kiss, flexing his hips to meet her thrusts. Together they lean into a rhythm, that feels more like a confession than anything they had ever discussed before tonight.

Luca’s hands are everywhere, and he murmurs into her ear in Italian the whole time and, fuck, she really needed to get that Italian-English dictionary from New York out again.

And, it’s so good, her position against him the perfect angle to grind her clit into his pelvic bone on the downward thrust. Emilia knows she won’t last long like this.

She presses a hand into his chest, desperate to hold him in place, as she bounces in his lap. Her entire being focussed solely on her own pleasure, on the pleasure radiating out from between her legs, from where Luca is between her legs. And, fuck, she’s nearly there. 

He’s more than happy to be used like this, and just as he feels her clenching hard around him, he leans into her ear. “_Andiamo_, Mia,” he just about chokes out, she’s so tight on him. Her eyes roll back into her head and she does as he says and comes hard. Her thigh muscles shaking on top of his, as she shudders to a near-stop. 

Still rocking slightly back and forth over him, he doesn’t give her time to recover. Luca takes over, thrusting his hips up into hers. He sets a brutal pace, so close to his own release now.

He’s holding her up now, her orgasm having seemingly left her boneless with pleasure. He has a hand on her jaw, tilting her face down to his, and another around her waist. She’s making sharp little inhales into his face, on every thrust, delightfully over-stimulated. “Luca,” she whines, breathy, and it’s this that sends him over the edge. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder, groaning as he unloads into her. Rocking his hips slower and slower until it hurts too much. Hurts too good.

They breathe together for a minute, still joined, still one being. 

Until, sitting upright becomes too much effort, and Luca lets them fall to the side, lying back down on the lounge. She lands atop him, resting her head on his rising and falling chest. He brings a hand up, stroking it through her hair. 

“Jesus, fuck,” is all she can think to say, her brain not quite back on yet. Luca makes a soft, ‘Mm’ noise in response.

Emilia shuts her eyes, she’s not sure if she falls asleep, but the next time she opens her eyes they have barely shifted.

Luca is still awake too, his fingers idly drumming over the spot where the scar is on her ribs. Too early to be asking about scars, he thinks. “Gotta say, I did not see this actually happening,” he murmurs out into the dark room.

She thinks about that for a second, “But you did _think _about it happening?” She asks, voice muffled as her face is still half-pressed into Luca’s torso.

Luca’s chest bounces a little as he chuckles. Then, “How’d you get into this room that first day?” Always with the questions, even now, she thinks. Can’t even fuck it out of him.

She lifts her head, and pulls a face, like it’s entirely obvious, “I broke in.”

He huffs a small laugh up at the ceiling, because, yeah, that was pretty obvious. “I bluffed my way through the doorman, snuck past the front desk, got all the way up in here, and the fucking _housekeeper _walks in.” He’s laughing fully now. “Thought I was _made_. No word of a lie. I’ve never made up a story so quickly. That you’d let me in and were coming back any second.” She looks down at him, his eyes are shut but he’s still grinning.

“And then I did,” he murmurs.

“Stroke of luck that was,” she says, pressing her mouth into his shoulder.

“With you? Nah,” he drawls, his voice growing heavy. He pulls his arm around her tighter, “I think you planned this all, down to every last detail.”

She doesn’t say anything, just listens to his breathing slow down, and even out.

She leaves in the night. His men follow her in another car all the way back to Small Heath. Figures.

* * *

“You got back late last night,” Tommy says, entirely too chipper, when he finds her in the betting shop the next morning.

Her head hurts too much for an interrogation this early. Not to mention other parts of her.

“I don’t need you to watch me when I’m with him, Thomas.” Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up, apparently not missing the ‘with him’ implication. “I have enough people watching me already: His men, the coppers, my own fucking agency,” she carries on, letting her throbbing head fall into her palms.

“Hey?” He questions.

Emilia nods, head still in her palm. “Spotted an old colleague in town, too close for comfort. He definitely doesn’t live there, shouldn’t even be in the fucking country as far as I know.”

Tommy makes a soft, ‘Hm’ sort of sound, and ponders, “Now, why’d you think they’d be watching you?”

She had a couple of ideas.

She looks up at him, “No idea.”

The thought plays on her mind though. That is, whenever her thoughts haven’t drifted to the lounge in Luca Changretta’s hotel room. 

She’s becoming increasingly paranoid about her colleague’s presence in the city, and decides to arrange a contact with her bosses, something which is generally discouraged when ‘undercover’.

They agree to meet with her, picking the local art gallery & museum as their spot. It’s so obvious it mostly feels like a complete brushing off before the thing’s even begun.

She’s staring at a Rossetti painting of _Proserpine _when an older gentleman, and a woman about Polly’s age sidle up next to her. Emilia doesn’t bother with any idle chat; she comes right out and asks about Anderson.

They share a look, “Why would you ask that?”

And, Jesus, if they thought that he was a triple agent, or he had defected in anyway, then she might have just painted a target on her own back by asking about him at all.

Emilia plays it off, tells them she’s already closely associated with Anderson and if they needed another pair of eyes on him, she was there.

“You have a job to do here,” the woman asserts.

“I know, and I’m doing it —”

“You’re in there to undermine both their efforts, gather information, stop major casualties, Turner,” she continues quietly, “You know we don’t need the Americans on our back right now.”

“I know.”

“Your job is not to worry about other agents,” the older man says, pretending to be focussed on the painting in front of him.

Emilia sighs, “But if you’re worried about him, shouldn’t I be— If we don’t know how many sides he’s playing?”

“How many sides are _you _playing?”

“One.” Mine.

They nod.

She leaves, no more confident in her position than when she arrived. Emilia doesn’t know what she expected.

* * *

Luca waits. He had a clear afternoon for this particular meeting. He had wanted one more moment, one more day with her before his plan with Shelby hopefully fell into place. But she never shows. He waits. Sends some men off to the outside of town, report back if there was another accident or diversion or whatever stopping her from getting out here. Nothing.

He even walks down the street to a public phone box and calls the Shelby company line again. Pretending to be a punter, asking around. She’s not there either. He feels like an idiot. He had been with women who he had never seen again, for sure, but this was different. He thought there was a level of trust between the two of them.

His mind races; did he scare her away? She didn’t even stay the night. Did he hurt her? And a small niggling thought in the back: was it all a ploy? Had she gotten enough information from him and was now satisfied.

He has never been the type of man to sit around waiting for answers. So, he goes out and gets them.

* * *

She gets back late, immediately peeling off her stockings, and letting her coat and shoes fall where they may. Emilia’s been home about 10 minutes when she hears a knock at the door. She had been so preoccupied trying to digest the information, or lack thereof, from her meeting, the sound shocks her. Jumping up, she decides it’s too late for any sort of polite house call and grabs her gun before approaching the door. The person knocks again. The thought briefly occurs to her that it could be Anderson himself. 

She cocks her pistol in her hand and opens the door a crack.

Luca Changretta is standing on her doorstep, hat in his hands, looking entirely impatient. Because, of course he is.

She swings the door the rest of the way open, “Luca, what the fuck?” He raises an eyebrow, glancing down at the gun in her hand. She doesn’t wait for him to reply, just grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him through the doorway. Emilia sticks her head outside, looking up and down the street. She can’t see another soul, and even though it’s dark, Luca had been lit up by the streetlamp enough that if someone was watching they could give a vague description. 

She shuts the door quickly and rounds on him, “Did you come by yourself?” She asks, concerned. 

His mouth has a small, amused lilt to it, “Yeah, I —” 

“Jesus, I know I live on the edge of town, but this is still in heavy Shelby territory, Luca,” she cuts him off, motioning back to the street.

It was a modest little house by his standards but, he guesses, could be seen as extravagant for a single woman in this area. The houses were further apart out here. Still lined up in rows, but each with a little garden in front and a yard out back that looked out onto a green pasture. 

“If anyone had seen you, they could easily make a call and Tommy could have a bunch of men over here in no time.” Emilia hurries over to the front window, drawing the curtain over tighter. She shuts the main light off in the room as well, just to be safe, leaving them lit by only a far lamp and the glow of her fireplace. 

Luca watches her fuss about still clutching her weapon and has to bite his lip to keep from smiling fully. “Nobody saw me,” he replies his voice even and relaxed. He maintains a casual stance, hands in his pockets. 

Emilia doesn’t appreciate his nonchalance, crossing her arms, and therefore her gun, over her chest. “_I_ could make a call and have a bunch of men over here then,” she responds dryly.

He does smile now, raises his hands, and backs further into the room, “Well, I’d better wait here and see if you’re gonna sell me out, then. Bet it’ll be thrilling.” He rasps out the last couple of words in his usual American drawl and begins to wander around the room.

She watches him, gun now dangling at her side, “What are you doing here?”

He’s inspecting a photo frame on the mantelpiece, “We had a meeting,” he says, almost absent-minded.

Her mind whirs. “Shit,” she lets out on a long breath.

He’s right, they had. Between the Anderson thing, and the fact that her last visit to the hotel had been a completely impromptu decision after Michael’s incident, Emilia had plain forgotten that they had a pre-scheduled meeting set up for today. She was going to kill Anderson herself, next time she saw him. 

“Shit,” she reiterates, chastising herself. “I’m sorry, I forgot.” 

She seems genuinely dismayed at having forgotten, her brows knitting together in a frown. And, after her concern over him being seen in the street, Luca feels his mood lifting. The worry of earlier abating. “It’s okay,” he replies, picking up a book she had strewn on the sofa and leafing through it.

It’s almost funny, Emilia thinks. He’s been inside her but being inside her house is somehow more intimate in her mind, makes her nervous in a way the other thing hadn't. She doesn't need to examine why that might be. She puts away her gun finally, trying not to watch him so carefully. She was vaguely glad her relationship with the Shelby’s was so frosty, it meant there were no photos of them hanging around that she would have to hide. 

Luca’s eyes flitter about the room, deliberating over something. Emilia decides to try and explain, “I had another meeting crop up,” she begins, wearily.

Luca shakes his head, holding up a hand briefly like she doesn’t have to explain. “Just wanted to make sure we were still, you were still, after —” he motions to himself, then to the two of them, “You know,” he clears his throat a little.

Emilia’s face is blank for a second, before: “Oh fuck!” Her eyebrows shoot up. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. Of course, I’m fine,” she quickly assures him, chuckling and waving him off. “Like I didn’t show up out of fear of what— awkwardness?” She wanders past him to the other side of the room, continuing, “No, no, I had a whole other something going on.” 

She was different here, in her house, surrounded by all her things, people always were. Somehow more confident, and more nervous all at once. 

He continues looking around, taking in her surroundings. Maybe the house would help him get a better impression of the woman herself. The room they were currently in had a cosy feel, despite being quite large. The first part that looked out onto the garden was dedicated to a main living room, complete with grand fireplace. The floor was covered in thick, lush looking carpets, and bookcases lined the walls. Either side of the fireplace were a set of dark, velvet armchairs. The room carried on into a raised dining area, and beyond that a small decorative kitchenette with a stove, cupboard, and liquor cabinet on the far side of the room. Probably in addition to a grander full kitchen downstairs.

It was homey but still looked high-end. Luca was quietly impressed. Not that he would expect anything less from a woman who was so put together. From a woman who had drawn his own eye so fiercely.

“You want a drink? Tea?” She asks him, because that’s what British people do when they don’t know what else to do. 

Luca pulls a face, “Had more than my share of tea, already, thanks.”

She smiles, the idea of too much tea a foreign one to her. She doesn’t dare offer alcohol yet, not after how quickly things devolved last time. Emilia has a thought, “Coffee?”

Luca’s whole face perks up, “You’ve got coffee?” He can scarcely believe it.

“Oh, I’ve got coffee. You forget, I spent all those months living in New York, too.” She gives him a conspiratorial smile, and grabs it out of the far cupboard, “Brought this over with me.”

He follows her over and takes it from her when offered, holding the jar in his hands like it was a newborn child. “_Oh,_ _Dio mio_,” he breathes out, all one long sound.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Luca smiles wide, his eyes crinkling endearingly at the corners. She reluctantly pulls her gaze away from his and sets about making the coffee over the small stovetop.

Luca resumes his idle spying; he notices a book on her side table. He holds it up to her, smirking, “You trying to infiltrate my other meetings too?”

Emilia looks around, he’s holding up her Italian-English dictionary. Her face colours slightly, and she turns back to the coffees she's making so he doesn't see. “No,” she drags out the ‘oo’ sound, deciding whether she’ll tell him.

Fuck it. “Just trying to figure out what you were saying the other night.” 

He grins, lascivious, immediately remembering. 

“Had that from when I was trying to infiltrate you lot in New York, anyway,” she carries on. 

Luca makes a deep, ‘Hmm’ sound, sitting slowly down on the small sofa in the lounge. “So, you should be pretty good by now,” he jokes.

Emilia appears holding a mug of coffee in each hand. She shrugs, smiling. “Sto migliorando, Capo,” she intones quickly. She had heard some of the men call him that. It was a title: _boss_.

Luca freezes halfway to pulling his jacket off, his eyes on her, wide. Three things hit him all at once: the way her tongue rolls so confidently around the language, the epithet and its playful insinuation of power, and the smell of the goddamn coffee. Luca swallows hard and throws his jacket over the arm of the chair, gently taking the mug from her. He’s not sure which part has turned him on more. Either way, he burns his tongue sipping the coffee down too fast, trying to hide the tell on his face. Fuck, she was designed to ruin him.

She sits in the cosy looking armchair across from him, tucking her bare legs up underneath her. The position exposes more thigh than a lady ought to in company and Luca thinks she knows that. Smiling sweetly over her mug at him. He coughs to clear his throat, “How many languages you actually speak?” He asks, just for something to say.

“Well,” she begins, thinking, “Bit of Italian now, bit of Welsh, Romani, you know gypsy,” she rattles off, waving her hand like that’s nothing. Luca nods, impressed. “Petit peu de Français,” she squints and holds up her hand to indicate a small amount. She pauses a moment, finally finishing with, “A_ lot of _Russian.” She frowns, a far-off look filling her eyes.

He decides to press, “So, if those men come barging in the door right now, and we had to run away to Russia, we could?” 

“We could, theoretically,” Emilia smiles through thin lips, “It’s too bad the sound of the language makes me nauseous.” She takes a long sip of her coffee, averting her eyes from him.

Luca could take it as a slight dig at the Russians, but inside he’s sure there’s more to it than just that. Story for another time, he thinks, just like the scar. He wanted them all.

They drink in silence for a moment.

Luca inhales deeply, letting the rich, earthy aroma fill his lungs. He feels a tiny bit guilty, he had lambasted Matteo for not wanting to eat like them, and the first taste of home Luca had got he jumped at it. But it was _coffee_, and it was Emilia, so fuck Matteo.

It’s unsurprisingly pleasant, being sat in her presence, warm drink in hand, but there’s a gnawing thought at the back of his mind. “You don’t seem concerned that I know where you live,” he begins, “You didn't even way back when.” He thinks of her trudging out to meet him in her courtyard, at the crack of dawn. The hour of day upsetting her more than his unannounced presence.

“What do you take me for?” She looks at him, a small half-smile playing on her face.

Her amusement puzzles him, like she was asking why a young lady should be concerned a dangerous mobster knew her home address? Luca had thought that would be fairly obvious.

“I don’t know yet, but I plan to,” Luca mumbles in reply, trailing his eyes up and down her form.

Her eyes widen ever so slightly, before she averts them, staring into the fire beside them. “I know where you live, why shouldn't you know my address?” She asks, quietly.

The simple equality of it strikes him; she didn’t expect special treatment from him, from anyone perhaps.

Luca purses his lips, it’s not the same thing, “It’s a hotel, lots of people know where it is.”

She quickly rattles off his private address in New York, keeping her eyes on the flames. Luca doesn’t even try to hide his astonishment; he’s thrown, half his men don’t even know that address.

She looks over finally, and shrugs a little, like she’s sorry.

He finds he’s not mad, though. Can’t bring himself to feel anything other than a growing appreciation for her sheer competence. He had felt _something_ building between them these past few weeks, and he had always respected those who were aggressively good at what they did. He’s only just now beginning to realise those two things were not so unrelated, either that or the coffee had made him especially complacent tonight.

He leans back in the chair, eyes appraising her again.

“Did you uh— did you have anything you particularly needed from me?” She asks, innocently enough. Luca’s mind races, taking in her rosy lips, the way her bare legs shift together ever so slightly as she readjusts herself on the chair. _Yes_. Ti prego, Dio, sì.

But she’s asking why he even needed a meeting with her today, he reminds himself, because of course she is. She’s actually here to do a job, unlike himself who had been thinking with his dick this whole time.

He scrubs his face with one hand, “No, I’m sorry, Mia. I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here like this, in the middle of the night.”

Luca’s mind whirls over the mountains of other things he could be doing, should have been doing with his time. 

“I do.” She puts her cup down on the side table, and gets up abruptly, coming to stand before him. Heart beating wildly in her chest. Looking down at Luca, she raises her hands slowly up underneath her skirt, and pulls her undergarment down. Bending at the waist to draw them down her legs and stepping delicately out of them once they hit the floor. 

Luca’s eyes leave hers, trailing the movement of the silky fabric. Her whole body thrums with excitement, with anticipation.

“You do?” He croaks out.

Emilia simply nods, confidently standing there above him, panty-less and apparently ready for the taking. He nearly loses consciousness all the blood in his body redirects so fast.

He rises just as she lowers herself to meet him, and together they end up on the floor. 

Definitely not a polite house call, she thinks. As he practically rips open her blouse, grazing burning kisses across her bare flesh there. Emilia hitches her legs up around his waist. It felt like their last encounter had evolved so quickly, but it’s truly frantic this time. They’re both still kind of half-dressed when he enters her, warm and ready.

He keeps his attention on her chest, takes one breast in his hand, nips and sucks at the other. He had been so caught up in it all last time he didn’t pay the right amount of attention, too focussed on having her at all. Her heat enveloping him, her soft flesh filling his hand, skin under his mouth, he takes it all in this time. And she keeps making these little noises, little hitched gasps with every rolling movement of him inside her. One thing that’s the same, that he hopes is always like this: she’s so sweet. He wants to know what she tastes like everywhere.

He mouths back up to her panting lips. Slides his hands under her, up to neck, where he cradles her head in his palms, keeping her there. Something he seems to enjoy doing, and honestly, she’s not complaining. 

She gasps into his mouth. There’s an underlying taste of coffee there, that he wants to just drink in until it tastes only like her. He licks hungrily into her mouth, kissing her in a way that makes her whimper, high and needy in the back of her throat.

For a moment, it’s dreamily reminiscent of one of those romance novels she used to read, Emilia thinks. Being made love to on a soft rug on the floor, in front of the warmth and glow of a roaring fire. Then Luca hitches his elbow behind one of her knees, drawing it up higher, allowing him to penetrate deeper, harder, and she can’t think much at all.

Emilia feels something cold and metallic brush against her chin and looks down to see Luca’s golden cross necklace. She had gotten the top half of his shirt unbuttoned when they first started, and it was hanging down from its place around his neck, dangling in the haste of his thrusts. She opens her mouth, taking the little cross in, and bites down on it. Holding it between her teeth to stop it from hitting her.

Luca watches this unfold, and has to slow down, shutting his eyes briefly, just so he doesn’t lose it on the spot. And he’s sure it’s blasphemy, but he makes a silent prayer for strength, just to be sure. What was wrong with him? She made him lose all his hard-won control.

He’s still grinding his hips into hers, and she tosses her head back, still holding onto the cross, groaning around it. Maybe she was having the same problem?

He leans in close to her ear, “You wanna know what I was saying yesterday, dolcezza?” 

“Mm,” she answers in a moan around the metal in her mouth.

“You have no clue what you do to me. You make me _need_, amore. And I never need anything. From anyone.” Every sentence is punctuated with a thrust.

And, God, it’s nowhere near as dirty as she had thought but it touches the same place inside her. She digs her fingers into his biceps, as it sets her aflame deep from within. He fucks her through her shivering, full-body tremors. His own orgasm hurtling headlong behind.

He’s ready for it this time, pulling out and coming on her instead, warmth hitting the inside of her thigh.

They don’t move for what seems like an age. Emilia caged in on all sides by Luca, catching their breath.

It takes everything he has not to just fall forward, bury his face in her neck, let sleep take him. Thinks she might even be amenable to such a thing. Instead, Luca summons the last of his strength, leans down slowly, kisses the hollow of her throat, and then sits up, tucking himself back in his trousers.

Emilia sits up too, discreetly pulling the front of her blouse back over her exposed chest. She rummages around in the side table next to them and succeeds in pulling out a tin of pre-rolled cigarettes and a lighter. She taps one out, and lights the end, quickly inhaling.

Luca leans back against the couch, jaw tilted up lightly as he watches her somewhat affably. She doesn’t offer him one, he doesn’t ask. She reaches out and grabs her mug off the table too, finishing off her now-cold coffee in between puffs, avoiding his luxuriating gaze.

“Why don’t you smoke?” She asks. She had seen nearly everyone in New York smoking, and she was sure people in Italy smoked, but she had never seen Luca touch one, always just that toothpick or match instead.

She was avoiding what had just happened, so Luca gives her an answer he knows will annoy her. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

She glances sidelong at him and raises an eyebrow.

He bobs his head from side to side, like he doesn’t really know what to say. Finally settling on, “I don’t like the taste.”

She laughs, it’s almost a cute answer. “Nobody likes the taste,” she tells him, chuckling.

He smiles, he knows. “Why do you then?” He throws back at her, good-naturedly.

“It started out by accident,” she pauses, “Good excuse for loitering somewhere, watching someone. Nobody asks why you’re hanging around if you’re just smoking.”

Luca nods, impressed. His girl was smart and fucking good at her job. He suddenly wishes he could tell her the truth, what he was planning for tomorrow. Maybe get her objective opinion.

Luca looks down, purses his lips slightly. “I’m glad that you were okay today,” he says quietly. 

“Thanks for coming by to check,” she replies, haltingly, unsure where this is going.

He looks like he’s going to say something else, like he has something important to say.

“Well,” she blurts out, ashing her cigarette, and making like she’s going to stand up, “I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

Luca frowns suddenly. “Me too,” he murmurs, moving to stand up as well. As he does, he leans forward, angling his face towards hers but freezes, inches away from her, apparently second guessing himself. She watches his eyes flicker down to her mouth and after a second that feels like a lifetime, he places a quick peck on the corner of her mouth, before just as quickly standing up and moving towards the door.

Emilia stands too, adjusting her skirt. Ignoring the wetness on her upper thighs, ignoring the fact that she’s going to need to take a bath tonight now.

He’s got his jacket and coat on when she meets him by the front door.

She stands alongside the door and waits for him to say something else, waits for him to say anything. He straightens his lapels, and gets one hand on the door handle, but pauses there. She can nearly see his thoughts ticking over. His jaw clenches briefly, and he straightens up, stepping over to stand directly in front of her, his eyes intense.

He puts a hand on her abdomen, just resting it there inside her half-unbuttoned shirt, barely holding her in place. He bends down, watches her eyes fall closed, and presses his lips to hers. Kissing her with such force that she is pushed back, her head stopped by the wall she’s leaning against. She responds almost immediately. Her jaw tilting up to hold the kiss, as he rises again slightly, angling his whole body in her space.

Her body surges against his, almost of its own accord. And Luca opens his mouth against hers, breathing her in, the barest brush of tongue. Considering the, quite frankly, frantic sex they'd just had, the kiss was so, so soft it was practically demure.

He doesn’t mind the taste of smoke on her, he finds.

Ever so slowly, he pulls back. She follows him, her head lifting off the wall to chase the press of his lips. Luca’s large hand on her stomach eventually halts her movement forward, and they separate. 

Emilia looks up at him with wide, clear eyes, and faintly parted lips. They just stare at each other for a moment.

Luca looks down at her, tilting his head, almost like he’s going to rest his forehead against hers, but doesn’t, he keeps his slight distance. Emilia watches his downcast eyes, the tiny crinkle in his forehead. There’s something sombre in his expression, something almost sad about it. Before she can say anything, Luca takes a deep breath and nods and turns away. Opening the door and leaving, without another word. 

What was all that about? She thinks.

* * *

She doesn’t have to wonder long.

In the end, she learns about the ambush just in time to alert the police. Just in time to tell them to have a large team ready to mobilise. She’s not sure if Tommy has told them himself but she figures she better, just to be safe.

She can’t even be mad about it. Luca had come to her the night before, hot-blooded and ready, and she still hadn’t figured it out. Had been so preoccupied by him in her house, she’d lost it. Had he been about to tell her, and she had practically jumped him, and ruined it? Or more likely he was just not telling her, had maybe hoped she would figure it out on her own. But Tommy and Polly had kept this one wrapped up tight, so she had no idea until almost too late.

She opens the door to his suite a few hours later. It’s quite late, but he’s still up. Luca’s sitting on the lounge, lit hazily by the dying embers glowing in the fireplace. One hand rubbing his temple, toothpick working overtime. He looks up as she comes in.

He doesn’t ask, ‘Did you know?’ And she’s grateful. Hopefully they were past that. 

What he does say is, “You heard, then?”

Truth is, she had learned about the shootout by pure chance. She had gone into town that morning and heard murmurs of ‘that Shelby man’ seen moving a large case onto a council estate in the dead of night. There’s really only one thing it can be, but she hopes otherwise. Until, she comes home to a large bouquet of flowers on her doorstep, left there in the short time she had popped out. They’re white lilies. What do lilies symbolise? Death? Forgiveness? Either way it’s a blatant sign from Luca. She knows where Tommy keeps the stolen gun; the Lewis machine gun she technically had no professional knowledge of. She races and finds it gone and her blood runs cold. Only then did she call in reinforcements.

She sits on the edge of the coffee table, placing herself directly in front of him.

She can’t tell him just how relieved she had felt to hear that he survived, that the police had stopped he and Tommy just in time. Can’t tell him because she wasn’t even sure how to put it into words for herself yet. Didn’t want to think about what that meant. 

“You should have told me,” she says in its place.

Luca looks at her like she’s right, but she knows he can’t say it.

He looks around the room, his eyes never resting in any spot for too long, his body still thrumming from the comedown of adrenaline. 

“Nearly fucking had him,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, shaking his head. 

She reaches a hand out, resting it on his knee. Emilia can feel the tension coming off him in waves. 

His gaze settles on her hand on him, before he places his own atop it. “They killed Federico,” he says, the statement at odds with the soft, gentle rubbing of his fingers over her knuckles.

She knew the numbers, from Tommy, from the angry coppers she had dealt with. 3 Italians dead, no Blinders.

She also knew Federico was important to him, had helped him plan a lot of their mission so far. 

“He knew what he was getting into,” Emilia tries quietly.

Luca gives a small half-nod, then rubs a hand over his brow, “That fucking bitch sold me out.”

She really doesn’t want to say, ‘I told you so,’ but she did say not to trust Polly. Emilia would know, but he can’t know that. So, instead, a little flirty, she says, “Did you send me flowers?”

She expected him to give a wry smile, to maybe wink, laugh it off, but he doesn’t. He sighs deeply and nods once. And, white lilies might be for something in particular but, she realises, he had meant them as goodbye. Thank you and goodbye, thinking he was about to be done here.

“You look like you need to sleep, Luca.”

She reaches out and runs her other hand along his jaw, her thumb tracing the faint white line of the scar that runs down the hollow of his cheek. He leans into her touch, eyes falling half closed.

“Let me take you to bed this time,” he replies, his voice hoarse.

He takes his time with her, stripping them both down, and working out all his tension from the day. Like they have all the time in the world, when they clearly don’t, when he nearly died multiple times today.

Luca ends up behind her on the mattress, his arms wrapped securely around her, clinging to her, clinging to life. One arm tucked under her neck and crossing her chest to grasp one breast, the other reaching up over her ribs to hold her other. It had been a long time since she had felt so secure in someone’s grip. If ever, she thinks alarmingly.

She reaches her own hand back, grabbing the nape of his neck. And turning her head, pulls his mouth to hers, trying to put all that emotion into a kiss, all that she can’t say. She gasps into it, her torso pulled back against his like this, forcing her to bow her back. This new angle allowing him to reach somewhere deep inside her that sends her quivering all over with every thrust.

He has to grip her tighter to hold on, to keep it going. His brows pull together, and he groans loudly into her mouth, almost completely gone.

His hand not under her, drops to her hipbone, gripping painfully tight. She finds herself hoping they’ll leave a mark. Something she could press on later and be pleasantly reminded of this, because there’s no way something this good can last.

Later, after they’ve caught their breath, Luca is pressed up against her back, his arms still entwined around her. He picks up her right hand and holds it palm-to-palm with his, the difference in size is nearly comical. 

He takes off his pinkie ring and deftly slides it onto her middle finger. She turns her hand over in his and observes the piece of jewellery. It’s a gold signet ring, with an intricate ‘L’ carved into the face.

“Hm, I don’t know,” Emilia intones, “Doesn’t really go with the rest of my look.”

Luca scoffs into her neck, punctuating the joke with a thrust of his hips against her. The big tease.

His deep voice rumbles into her shoulder, “I want you to have something to look at and remember me.” And it’s like he’s inside her head because hadn’t she just been hoping for that?

Emilia bites her lip, “I think _you _want to look at me, and see something of yours.” She’s still teasing, because actually acknowledging what was happening right now might overload her already overwrought brain. “So typical of a man,” she sighs, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Luca bites hard into the sensitive muscle between her neck and shoulder. Emilia gasps in response. “I can see plenty of things of mine, la _Mia_,” he whispers there. And yeah, she was aware of the bilingual double-entendre of a nickname he had given her. 

“This,” he nips at the mark he had just pressed into her shoulder. “This,” he runs his hand along her side, over various bruises and marks he had littered her with in their passion. Pressing into the bruises like she had hoped for it out loud. His hand drifts lower, and Emilia’s mouth drops open. “This,” he growls out, reaching between her legs, through the mess he left there.

He slides his fingers through the wetness of her opening, gathering some up and swirling it over her most sensitive spot. He feels a deep moan vibrate through her and attaches his mouth to her neck. He places a fingertip either side of her clit and rubs up and down. She squirms and he continues until she grasps at his forearm, pulling at it, panting, still too tender yet. Luca concedes, kissing up and down her neck, nevertheless.

“Something to remember you by, huh?” She asks, once she’s got her breathing back in order, “You going somewhere, Capo?”

He hums in the affirmative, “I’m going to London.”

Emilia nods, realising, “Going to see that old geezer, are you?”

“You know Solomons?”

She snorts, “No. If I had ever been introduced to Alfie Solomons, I would never have been able to work again. Man doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut,” she chuckles.

Luca makes a noise of understanding behind her.

The bed is nice, an upgrade from the couch or the floor for sure, but she still leaves in the early hours of the morning. She doesn’t wish him good luck, wouldn’t want to presume, knows he doesn’t need it. But where Solomons was concerned, you could never be sure. 

She drives herself back, her eyes catching the gold of the ring on her hand on the steering wheel, glinting in the light of the streetlamps. She decides she’s going to wear it, but she desperately needs to clear her head. Three times in three nights was a little much, by anyone’s standards. She’s going to use this time away from him to de-stress, to de-Luca, get some perspective on the situation.

Best laid plans, and all that.

* * *

Ada storms into Polly’s one day when Emilia and Lizzie are working there, fuming mad. She’s a mess, yelling about being strip-searched, and humiliated by the army. 

She rounds on Emilia, “And, why didn’t _you _tell me about this?”

Emilia nearly double takes, how was this her fault now? But, Ada’s serious. 

“I don’t deal with fucking communists,” she looks up at the other woman, trying not to roll her eyes, “Not my department, Ada.” At least not anymore, she thinks. From the other side of the room Polly cackles.

Ada carries on, she was always secretly the most dramatic of the lot. 

Emilia decides she’s had enough, she’d finished her work for Tommy for the night, she packs up. Was it too presumptuous of her to just show up at Luca’s hotel? Especially in the middle of the night, especially if she didn’t even know if he was back yet? The fact that it was the only place she even felt like going, meant she was in enough trouble as it was. As she pulls on her coat and bag, she notices Lizzie, who looks just as restless as Emilia feels. “Do you want to get out of here?” She asks, “Maybe grab a drink? I know a place.”

Lizzie agrees, and they wind up at an old pub, filled mostly with old spinsters, on the other side of town. “Lovely,” Lizzie remarks upon entering.

Emilia laughs, “Hey, but at least it’s better than the Garrison.” And, at least they could drink here without a man present.

Lizzie orders their drinks, and they sit themselves at a small table at the back, and it’s nice. It reminds Emilia of a time, before all this, before razor gangs, and spies, and Italian mafias. The same way the men all talk about the time before the war. When old friends could just sit and talk for hours, about meaningless shit. 

Inevitably though, things do crop back up.

“Think I might be pregnant,” Lizzie drops on her, seemingly out of nowhere after a couple of hours.

“Fuck!” She covers her mouth, just as quickly as it had come out. Several people at nearby tables turn their way. “I mean,” she whispers it behind her hand in Lizzie’s direction, “_Fuck_.” 

“Yeah, fuck.” Lizzie laughs, “It’s Tommy’s too.”

Emilia sits back, letting that little nugget of gold sink in. Of course, it was. The man had a habit of sinking his claws in.

“I’m happy for you,” she can barely rasp the words out. She can’t quite pinpoint why, but her voice is suddenly choked with emotion.

Lizzie’s brows pull together, and she chuckles a little in disbelief, “You don’t sound it.”

“I’m sorry,” Emilia replies, earnestly, “Things are just complicated right now.” It all comes flooding back in a rush, the past few weeks, she had thought she could sweep under an emotional rug, maybe forget about for a few hours.

“You don’t need to tell me.” Lizzie smiles over at her. She knows better than to ask Emilia about her own love life. The lines between work and personal were so often blurred, Lizzie was one of the few who had first-hand knowledge of that. She also knew better than anyone what it was like to be involved with a Changretta, so Emilia feels genuinely comforted.

Emilia smiles widely back across at her friend, “Well, we better be getting you home then, I can’t be keeping a pregnant lady up drinking all night!” She slaps a hand down on the table. “I won’t have that on my conscience.”

It’s not late, and it’s such a nice night out, that they both decide to walk. They leave the pub and set off down the street. 

They’re about halfway back to Watery Lane when they encounter a couple of men. They’re loud, and visibly drunk. They notice Lizzie first, apparently recognising her from her earlier working days. The whole area is Shelby territory, so Emilia’s barely worried.

“Just keep walking, Lizzie.”

The men start to follow them, hurling lewd abuse their way. Emilia turns around to tell them where to shove it, knows she’s armed if it came down to it, when she notices the men’s uniforms. Under the streetlamp, she can see they’re both police. Police who were drunk and off duty, never a good mix at the best of times. “Shit,” she says under her breath.

She thinks of the ambush with Tommy and Luca shooting up the estate, of the copper shot on the bridge. These men weren’t going to care both her and Lizzie were essentially Peaky Blinders. It might even be an incentive for them. The force wasn’t in Tommy’s pocket anymore due to the Italians. 

Emilia doubles their pace.

The coppers are getting louder and more violent, more vehement, and there are no other people around, not even any cars on the road. Emilia can almost see what’s about to happen before it does.

One of them reaches out and grabs at Lizzie from behind, and it all ends up happening in a blur after that.

There’s yelling, Lizzie lashes out at one of them and gets a hit in return, more yelling, Emilia ends up shoved against a wall at one point. Her knife’s in her hands before she knows it, and then it’s nearly completely in the man nearest her before he knows it. There’s blood now, and it still doesn’t seem like they’re going to back off, if anything they look more upset, more vicious. Emilia draws her gun from her purse and brandishes it, relieved as she finally sees fear enter the men’s faces. They take off back the direction they came, stumbling, swearing.

“Jesus, Em, why do you have that?” Lizzie pants, watching her put the gun away again.

“Are you okay?” Emilia asks her friend. Lizzie’s clutching her stomach.

“I don’t know.”

She helps Lizzie to Polly’s. She’s a little bruised and battered but mostly okay. Emilia’s the same, but doesn’t stay to rest like Lizzie, she makes for her car. She ignores Lizzie’s pleas to stay. She can’t handle the fucking air in there, the eyes on her when they ask what happened. Polly’s belated maternal instincts towards her only made her resentful these days, which she didn’t need.

Emilia says she’ll be fine, makes her excuses. And drives to him, to the hotel, wiping the blood off her hands on the way, off her steering wheel. So much for perspective.

* * *

Luca wanders into his hotel room feeling like death warmed up, it’s late and the drive back from London felt like it had taken three times as long as it should have. The meeting with Solomons had gone well, he was going to get what he wanted, but at the expense of mutilating a couple of his men. Luca stands just inside the door and lets his eyes fall shut, resting his brain for just a moment, that’s all he needs. He pulls off his coat and hat, going to hang them up, when he notices another coat already hung on the stand. A woman’s coat. He looks down, there’s a purse strewn at his feet too.

“Mia?” She’s not in the bed, or at the desk. He rounds the corner; not in the next room either.

“Luca?” She answers, voice coming from the bathroom. He grins, remembering when he had done the same thing to her. His mind conjuring up images of an expanse of warm, wet skin; naked and waiting for him.

What he finds is Emilia standing crookedly at the sink, bloodied towel in the basin, stockings ripped but still fully clothed, inspecting a large cut on her head in the mirror. She looks over when he appears in the doorway, her face pallid except for the redness on her forehead.

“Hi,” she says meekly.

Luca’s by her side in one stride. He lets loose a barrage of questions. 

She might have hit her head harder than she’d previously thought, because she takes a minute before realising they’re in Italian. Emilia doesn’t even think _he _knows he’s doing it. She can decipher a ‘What are you doing?’ in there, so she answers that one.

"Just cursing the fact that head wounds bleed like a motherfucker," she gestures to her head and the towel in the sink. She had only just stifled the blood flow.

Luca frowns, reaching up slowly with both hands. Before they get to her though, he looks into her eyes, asking a silent permission. Emilia nods. He tucks his large hands around the base of her head, thumbs running over the edge of her jaw. He tilts her head back a bit, holding her in place and inspecting.

Emilia just sighs under his touch.

“I’ll kill them.”

He doesn’t even know who _they _are yet, she muses. She might have fallen and hit her head for all he knew, but she appreciated his intuition.

  
  
“Got one pretty good myself,” she leans over and pulls the knife from her stocking. It’s blade still reddened to three quarters of the way up. She’s right, no matter where she got him, that was going to hurt. Luca takes the dagger from her, placing it on the sink, expecting to see her hands shaking, even a little, but there’s nothing. They’re steady as ever.

He stays in her space, looking down at her. “What happened?” His voice is sharp and teeming with anger, but she knows it’s not for her.

She takes a deep breath. She tells him how she and Lizzie had been at Polly’s, had decided to get a drink, had been having fun, had decided to walk home.

Luca’s stomach drops a little, he could see where this was going. Why she looks disappointed with herself, she had seen it coming too, and hadn’t been able to avoid it. Which was fucked, was probably the worst thing of it all; that someone could put that look on her face. Could make his capable, firecracker of a girl, feel like anything less.

Then she mentions that they were police and a cold, raw anger shoots through him. This fucking place.

Luca holds her, mostly to stop himself from doing anything else. She’s stiff, a steady bundle of tensed nerves under his hands. He presses a kiss into her hair, just above where the cut was. 

Emilia shivers under his touch, lets him warm her up. “Took her back to Aunt Pol’s, and everyone there— I couldn’t handle it,” she confesses. He pulls back slightly to look at her face again.

She continues on, rambling now, details about the men, about the night before that. Trying to avoid thinking about running out on everyone at the house. Is it that she didn’t want to be there? Or she just wanted to be here more? They must have known she was coming here. She was practically caught out. She was getting sloppy and couldn’t quite bring herself to care. 

Luca’s eyes have glazed over, like he’s looking through her rather than at her.

“What?” She questions.

He focuses up, eyes fixing on her intently. He’s quiet a moment longer, then says in a dark voice, “You said ‘Aunt Pol’.”

She freezes. Momentarily, but enough that Luca notices.

His eyes narrow, and he straightens up, “That’s why they trust you, huh. 'Cause you’re fucking family?” 

Emilia forces a casual smile. “It’s just what they call her,” she says trying to play it off.

“You don’t. You’ve never called her that before, not in front of me,” he says it slowly, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“You’re being —” 

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he’s backing away from her now, his voice deadly. 

She feels like she has whiplash. She tries to reach out for him again, “Luca —”. He pulls out of her grasp, keeping his hands up, to keep her at bay. 

She pointedly does not deny his accusation. 

“How easy was it?” He’s livid now, his voice clipped, barely above a whisper, “You come in here, tell me you work for them and I just fucking _believe _you.”

“I’m not one of them.” It’s not a lie, she wasn’t officially, not like Lizzie was, and she had never felt like one of them, especially not since him. Emilia sighs, letting her arms fall to her side. “But yes— technically Polly is my Aunt,” she admits, because fuck, he already knows.

And God, she had been _so _careful. So careful, and it’s all coming unravelled in one goddamn night.

Luca’s whole face drops. She carries on anyway, needing to be understood, to clarify, “Her husband— her _dead _husband, was my uncle.”

It had all seemed so serious, so crucial, a few weeks ago to keep the secret. Then, whatever had happened between them, had happened, and now, it doesn’t seem so important. 

“She nearly got me fucking killed,” he growls, “Or were you in on that, too? Was that bullshit as well?” He turns away from her, his face disgusted. He carries on before she can reply, “Bet you all had a good fucking laugh about it, huh?” He sneers, rubbing a hand over his brow, still not facing her.

“No —”

“You know, my mother was right about you,” he whirls around, pointing at her, nearly yelling now. “She said not to trust you, no matter what you said. That there wasn’t a soul in this city she wouldn’t know about.” His accent becomes more pronounced when he’s angry, somehow more Italian and more American all at once, “That your whole act was a fake, a plot!” He’s on such a roll now, she doesn’t even get a chance to reply. 

“What are you even doing here? Why are you here— in my room?” His questions hurt, edging too close to something she couldn’t explain. “You want me to go after them, get some more of my men killed? Why would you come all this way?”

She breathes deep, “I came here because I feel safe here.” He rolls his eyes at that, but she carries on. “I don’t know who those men were, who they really work for. This could have been a targeted attack, could have been arranged by anyone.” 

Luca nearly laughs, “You’re fucking paranoid, you know that?”

“Give me a reason not to be, ‘cause I’m the one who just got jumped in the middle of the street at nine thirty, on a weeknight!” She might be yelling too.

He glares at her across the small room. Running a twitching hand through his hair, Luca speaks to the floor, more than her when he says, “I should shoot you where you fucking stand.” He spits it out, full of fire, but it still sounds like he’s mostly trying to convince himself. 

Emilia wants to laugh suddenly, the hysteria of the situation maybe setting in. She had brandished her own gun only a few hours ago and doesn’t believe for a second that he would even dare to do the same. Not to her. She had met all manner of dangerous men and had always found the ones who were truly violent, who were willing to be so even in private, had tells. And, were rarely ever subtle about them. Luca had never struck her as one of them, leaning more towards an old-fashioned sense of chivalry than anything else. Emilia doesn’t have time to explore the dichotomy of a man who’ll shoot a stranger point-blank in the face, but would never put his hands on a woman, but remains thankful.

Luca is still going, his ranting morphed into Italian now, so she could hardly defend herself even if she knew how. She doesn’t know where to start, what to do, her head throbs. She wants to explain herself but can’t stand the stifling, windowless bathroom. She had been caught out, it was too late to diffuse, and all of her training was telling her to get out, get as far out as soon as possible. She feels like she’s drowning. She pushes off where she had been leaning against the bathroom sink, moving towards the door.

“So, you’re a Gray,” Luca says watching her go, his mouth twisted and his voice full of contempt, “Emilia Gray?”

“No, that wasn’t a lie —” she trips as her leg gives out from underneath her, and she has to grab a nearby wall for support. She looks down and notices a large gash on her lower leg. She doesn’t know how she didn’t notice it until now. Her stockings are ripped and there’s blood streaming profusely down her calf. There’s some dirt and other detritus in there, probably got caught on something when she was pushed against the wall.

Pain suddenly shoots up her leg, now that she’s noticed it. She must have gotten here on pure adrenaline. She tries to walk again, but her knee crumples under the pain. Emilia inhales sharply, “Fuck, shit,” as she has to grasp the wall again. Her heart rate shoots up out of pure habit, last time she had been injured and had to make a getaway had not ended well for her— hadn't ended well for anyone.

“Jesus _fuckin’ _Christ,” Luca curses from where he’s watching from the other side of the room. He appears next to her, lifting one strong arm under hers, around her back. It shocks a gasp out of her. “Come here,” he murmurs close to her.

Together they hobble over to his desk, where he sits her down on the edge hard.

“Sit,” he brandishes a long finger in her face, “_Stay here_.” His face is still drawn tight and serious, but all the ire seems to have disappeared out of it. He departs back into the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth and a towel. He settles on the chair in front of her and lifts her injured leg up onto the arm of it. 

It’s a far cry from throwing her out on her ass, like she had thought he might. She doesn’t dare say a word. Doesn’t know what to say, anyway.

Luca reaches up, grasps either side of the tear in her stocking and rips, disposing of the material completely. She has to bite her lip not to react. 

He applies pressure to the wound with the wet cloth, and this time Emilia can’t help her gasp at the sudden sting. Luca’s shoulders tense a little, but he does not remove the cloth. There’s a set to his jaw that tells her he’s still entirely mad. Though, she can’t tell anymore if it’s at her, or the coppers, or just in general.

Little by little, he manoeuvres the cloth around, wiping at the blood, and stifling its flow until he hears Emilia’s breathing even out. His fingers are gentle on the tender skin of the back of her leg. He tilts his head around to better inspect the gash, and begins to clean the dirt out of it, apparently focussed entirely on the task at hand.

She stares down the slope of his nose, taking in the stern profile and chances an explanation, “You want the whole sad story?” Emilia asks him, her voice quiet, and a little shaky.

He clicks his tongue and doesn’t say anything for a moment. He’s still breathing heavy, fuming down at her leg. Eventually, he mumbles a response, “While I’m here, sure.”

She tells him.

Polly’s husband was her maternal uncle, her mother’s brother. Meaning she was still a Turner, after her father’s side. She doesn’t pause to ponder why she had given Luca her real name from the start. She had given plenty of fakes in the past, but it hadn’t seemed right with him. She was at least thankful for that now. After her parents both died, her uncle and Pol had looked after her. Then he died too, and Polly went a bit mad.

“I didn’t see them again until I was grown-up. Already had my job, already fought hard for it. I mean, I was an orphan I had to. It was either that or,” she half shrugs, not wanting to over-emphasise this part, “Live on the street. Work on the street.” 

Luca doesn’t miss it, his head lifting to meet her gaze for the first time since she began her story. The lines of his face were set in a harsh scowl, apparently implying she could have easily become a prostitute was not the best path of explanation. 

Emilia tries to deflect, “It wasn’t entirely Polly’s fault, she had her own things going on, her own kids being taken off her.”

Luca had known that. It was what made her especially susceptible to his threatening of Michael.

“It was kind of about my own mother, it — it’s hard to explain,” she stops.

“Try.”

She’s shocked to hear the sharp response, had apparently gotten his attention now, and he wanted answers. She stares into his deep-set eyes, fixed on hers. He looks tired.

Emilia thinks about it for a moment, deciding on how exactly to tell it.

“She ran away, married a man outside of her class, educated herself. Everyone here, her family, thought she thought she was better than them.” 

Emilia sighs, “Maybe she did, I don’t know, she died young.” Saying it out loud felt not-quite wrong but almost too much. Too intense. She carries on. “Then, her rogue child shows up, — I wasn’t an easy kid to deal with,” she adds as an aside. 

“And, I left as soon as I could too. What were they to think, except that I thought the same as she had? That I was better than them.”

The worst part for Emilia was she knew she wasn’t. She was just like them, just as condemnable as even a man like Luca himself. She just had the official title to ratify it.

“I’m not a Shelby,” she reiterates, ploughing on while she still had his direct attention. “Michael is my only blood relative. He’s my cousin and I never really met him until he was already a man.”

Luca’s mind races back to the day he had threatened the kid, her anger then, scolds himself for not picking up on it sooner. It was so obvious in hindsight.

“Nobody knows this. Half the fucking Shelby’s don’t even know this. Tommy found out what I did, and came to me a few years ago, with an offer of working together. He thinks he can trust me, because he thinks they’re the family that I’ve always longed for. That I was so desperate for.”

“You let him think this,” Luca grumbles, letting his head fall, turning his focus back to her injury.

Her brows pull together, “Why do you think I ended up with a job with the bloody government? I decided a long time ago —” she shakes her head, a few strands of hair falling into her face. “I wanted to be more than they are. Than he could ever be. More than my mother ever dreamed of.” 

Her ambition had always been palpable. It was nice to know where it came from, that it was fought for tooth and nail.

“Slowly they got under my skin like family does, but I’m not them. Especially not in their eyes, I’ll never be.” 

He couldn’t blame them for being insular, it was the smart thing to do, and a tight-knit family was fundamental in his world.

“I’m not in the will, I don’t go to family meetings,” she exhales a short laugh, though Luca hears no real mirth in it.

But he couldn’t imagine that being someone’s only sense of familiarity in life; how useful they were. A love of convenience. A love that was so _visibly _conditional. He feels a burst of anger for Tommy Shelby, for all the Shelby’s. How could they not see her for what she was? 

"They're using you,” he mutters.

And she knows, of course she knows that, has already decided she can live with it. "Everybody's using someone for something,” she replies, looking down at him through half-lidded eyes.

Then again, he had underestimated her too. A brief tinge of guilt colours his anger. What were they using each other for?

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand any of it, Mamma’s boy,” she mumbles, pouting. It’s a risk, antagonising him so soon after such a revelation, but she sees the tiniest flash of a smile cross his face. A strange thought occurs to her; that he might not like her in spite of these small ills but because of them.

He’s finished digging the dirt out of her leg and goes to wipe it. The cool cloth stings and she involuntarily flinches away from him, inhaling sharply.

Luca sits back quickly, letting his hands fall to the wayside. She panics slightly, was it all for nought? She had borne her soul. Would he still leave her hanging here? Untethered and alone. It shocks her how much she doesn’t want that to happen. How much emotional stock she had put into this, into them.

“Non riesco a pensare bene,” he murmurs to himself. He reaches around her grabs the phone off the desk and speaks quickly into the mouthpiece. Emilia purses her lips, she can tell he’s using Italian specifically, so she doesn’t decipher exactly what he’s saying, however she catches: ‘Polizia’, and ‘Uccidili’, and gets the gist. 

He hangs up, closes his eyes and sighs, deeply. Emilia sits in silence, trying to get her own heart rate to settle.

He picks up the washcloth and resumes his ministrations, this time moving the clean part of the cloth in circular motions. Moving up her leg, away from the cut. She frowns, a little confused, though it feels nice.

He tucks the chair in surreptitiously closer, his left hand resting on her other leg.

“So perché non me l'hai detto. Ma non mi piace,” he mumbles, and she feels his cool breath on the inside of her thigh, his face suddenly very close to her.

“You know I’m still not fluent, right?” She tries for joking.

Luca leans down and places a kiss just above where his hand is on her inner thigh, “Sì.”

He looks up at her briefly before continuing to kiss and nip his way upwards. Her breath catches in her throat and her mind races. Is he really about to — 

“I’ve wanted to do this since I first laid eyes on you.” And, yeah, he is.

She subconsciously spreads her thighs wider, his eyes light up, and he brings his face down directly between her legs. 

He still wanted her so badly he couldn’t quite figure it out, so he decides to show her the only way he could be sure of.

His mouth is hot through the fabric of her underwear, as he kisses his way across the airy silk. Emilia must have thrown her head back, or shut her eyes, or God knows what, because the next thing she knows is his lips across her bare skin there; she hadn’t even felt him removing anything. He tongues her slit, spreading her lips, and flattening his tongue, and she might have forgotten how to breathe.

“_Oh_,” she moans out. And how did this even happen, again? Any of this? She can’t remember. Maybe this is his fucked-up way of saying goodbye, and fuck, if it wasn’t— she was never going to be able to look at him with one of those goddamned toothpicks ever again without imagining this. 

He splays a large hand over her abdomen and pushes her back to lie against the desk, allowing himself more room to manoeuvre. He does this like he does all things: with a quiet confidence. His lips and tongue travelling up and down her, seemingly everywhere, all at once. Emilia doesn’t know what to do with her own hands, grabbing his, latching onto his shoulders, holding onto the edge of the desk above her head. 

Luca brings his hand down to her thigh, keeping her legs from closing on his head completely, and feeling for the tension there, a tell he had picked up for when she was at her end. His other is pressing at the delicate skin of the inside of her thigh. 

He hears her breathing double in pace. 

His hands spread her even wider, allowing him to inspect every last inch of her with his mouth. His fingertips keep teasing her entrance, barely threatening to slide in, spreading the wetness there, before moving again. She’s moving her hips more now, pressing herself down onto his face.

He attaches his mouth to her clit and sucks, pursing his lips around the bud, his own moans vibrating through her. 

“Jesus Christ!” And he might be an abject sinner most of the time, especially tonight, but in her prayer, in this prayer, he was absolved.

She comes, a writhing heap of pleasure in his arms, back bowing, her hands scrambling for purchase anywhere they can. 

He doesn’t stop, and she thinks she might actually die if he tries to make her come again without putting any part of himself inside her.

“Luca, fuck me,” she grasps at his hair, making a mess of it. She pulls herself back up into a sitting position.

He rises out of the chair, standing so they’re level, wiping a hand over his mouth. 

“You’re not too hurt?” He asks, his eyes flicking up to the cut on her forehead. The concern is truly touching, but all she wants is to feel him.

“No,” she leans in, trying to kiss him, but he tilts his head back, lips staying just out of her reach.

“Good,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up, “Cause I’m gonna bend you over this desk and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to think straight.”

Before Emilia can react, he’s gripped her hips, and spun her around. Her front is pressed into the wooden top of the desk, and he pushes the hem of her dress up exposing the swell of her ass. She digs her fingers into the desk and arches her back, pushing her lower half out, trying to get more of his touch. She barely gets anywhere though, as her toes only just reach the floor from this position. She hears Luca swear under his breath, then the sound fabric rustling, his own pants being pushed down.

He slides the head of his cock up and down her slit, lubricating himself up. Emilia inhales sharply, she’s so ready for it she could scream. And when Luca finally slides home, she does cry out, her nails clawing at the desk top. He enters her fully in one smooth thrust, pausing there for a moment, unmoving, leaving her panting heavily. When he eventually decides to end her suffering and thrust, he keeps them shallow. He digs his fingers into her hip bones and only slides about halfway out before slamming himself back in, and repeats. Keeping her full and stuffed with his hardness.

She turns her head to the side to get some more air; Luca’s hurried pace apparently robbing her of all her other bodily impulses. Not to mention her grace, as she bumps her forehead against the table, the dull ache of her cut briefly becoming a sharp sting again. She’s almost glad for the momentary distraction away from the satisfying stretch of her lower half, she wants this to last for as long as it could.

She must have made a sound, as Luca’s pace slows, and he leans over her form, trying to gauge her readiness. Emilia looks over her shoulder at him and using the desk for purchase presses her ass back against him, setting her own pace of thrusts. Luca moans roughly into her neck and brings one hand up from her hip to her jaw. He pulls her upright with him, grinding against her, just barely moving his cock in and out of her.

“You like this?” He growls into her ear, his tone sending shivers all over her body. She can only nod in response, his hand still gripping her jaw tightly. 

“Tell me,” he continues, “Tell me the truth.” 

Emilia grunts, “I want you.” His hand not on her jaw, travels downwards to where they are joined. Feeling himself there. She abandons her grip on the desk, content to let him hold her up, and holds onto his arm wrapped around her. “Only you,” she pants.

“That’s it,” he lets his fingertips ghost over her clit. Gliding over it, before quickly retreating. He does this multiple times, leaving her a gasping mess in his arms. “No more secrets, tesoro.”

And those Italian nicknames only coming out when they were just at the edge, just so close to falling, really did it for her.

“Fuck, Luca. Please.”

The dichotomy strikes her again. A man who had been mad, furious even, at her not even an hour ago, who probably wanted to hate-fuck her, who had intended this as such, but couldn’t. Couldn’t do it without pleasuring her first, getting her to a place where she was begging to be taken hard. There’s a tenderness in the forethought there, a level of care indicated that pushes all thought of it being a goodbye from her mind.

Somehow her dress ends up being pulled off, Luca grasping her breasts through the material of her bra, pushing it down as much as he could. Emilia can hear his breath starting to catch in his throat and knows he’s close.

She doubles her efforts, thrusting back on him, moaning, telling him how good it is, demanding more, and she’s going to make him come like this. He drives in and out, speeding up, his movements becoming more desperate. 

And, when she feels him give one final, punishing thrust and come inside her, his choked half-groans muffled into her neck, she feels like a goddess. She loves it; Luca coming unravelled, losing control because of her.

Luca’s not done though. He stays inside her and gives her clit the full attention he only teased before. Rubbing his fingers in circling motions over it, applying the perfect amount of pressure. She inhales harshly, throwing her head back over his shoulder, and her whole body tenses.

He keeps going until she tightens around him to a painful degree, and he feels her throb under his fingertips. They groan in unison one last time, and Emilia practically slumps in his arms; completely drained. She feels both safe, and completely fucked in his arms. In all possible meanings of the phrase.

Luca doesn’t know how he gets them to the bed, but he does. He brings the washcloth over, too, wiping them both off before falling face first into a pillow. After a while, he feels her wriggle against him on the bed. He throws out an arm, pulling her spent body against him, tucking her into his side. 

He squints one eye open, watching her as she lays quietly next to him. Her eyes are closed, her face and chest still flushed with colour. She looks perfect, like this. His eyes flicker up to the cut on her head and worry floods through him. She’s not saying much, what if he had taken it too far? 

“You know what else my mother said?” He asks, barely hinting at their earlier quarrel.

“Not to talk to women you’re in bed with about your mother?” She replies, keeping her eyes shut. 

Nope, she was definitely doing okay. He bites at her shoulder, lightly. “Anyone that that family has to keep secret, would be most dangerous of all.”

Emilia pretends to snore a little.

Luca’s just as spent, but he doesn’t sleep a wink that night. And when she leaves in the night, he doesn't even pretend to be asleep this time. Just watches her get up, gather her things, and leave, without even a glance back.

* * *

“These meetings are for family only,” Arthur grumbles at her, when Emilia wanders into the betting shop a few hours later. 

She makes a show of looking around, “Who the fuck are you talking to?”

Arthur harrumphs but does not reply, as Tommy breezes past the two of them to the head of the table. The whole extended Shelby clan is there, sorely missing Michael’s presence, in her opinion. Tommy clears his throat, “Official business first; the match…”

Emilia stays standing, mostly tuning the meeting out. Tommy had already discussed the Peaky’s plans for the fight night with her. And, while she was sure he hadn’t told her the full extent of them, she was sure he wasn’t about to reveal them in front of the rest of the family. She had only come today to touch base after the incident with Lizzie last night but finds herself preoccupied. The stress of the last few hours, and lack of any real sleep catching up with her. 

“Now the matter of the coppers who roughed up Lizzie and Emilia.” 

She perks up at that. “Don’t need to worry about that. They’re being taken care of,” Emilia calls out.

“Emilia, if you report them to your higher ups —” Tommy begins but is cut off.

“Didn’t report them to my higher-ups,” she says, only a little snide, “The bloody Italians are going after them.”

Tommy is silent. Polly looks up at Emilia from her place at the other end of the table, blowing smoke out of her smirking mouth. Nobody says anything for a minute.

Emilia gestures towards her head. “He saw my fucking head wound, didn’t he,” she says finally, breaking the silence. “Had to tell him.”

Tommy straightens up, “And all it takes is your say so to get Luca Changretta to go up against the police.” It wasn’t a question, Tommy looked vaguely proud.

“Don’t act dumb, Tom,” she folds her arms over her chest. “It’s the reason you wanted me specifically for this job, isn’t it?”

“Not the only reason, but I had hopes.”

She glares over the room at his smiling face.

“Okay!” He begins again, “So, the Italians will take care of the Police, we’ll take care of the Italians, and suddenly the Police are back in our pocket and we’ll make sure they never touch you again, ‘ey Lizzie?”

Once again, Tommy Shelby’s plan comes together without a hitch.

* * *

She leaves Watery lane and heads straight back to the hotel, straight back to him. Only a little guilty that she had raced off to a family meeting the very next day after telling him she didn’t go to them. She wonders briefly if this is the right move, if Luca had watched her leave the night before trusting she wouldn’t come back. But she remembers the way his hands had held her, how his voice had sounded when he gasped, 'No more secrets', and her worry dissipates. 

She sees Tony and Matteo on their way out, as she approaches the room. 

“We got them, Mia,” Tony whispers conspiratorially to her, as they pass. He gives a little wink and a smile. She liked Tony, he had become their impromptu driver, after the first one was killed by Aberama Gold, and he was the only one of Luca’s men who actually addressed her. The rest never talked to her. She was sure for the same reason Arthur had snapped at her this morning: distrust. It came with the job, with letting people know what she really did. 

“You got them already?” She asks, looking between him and Matteo. It’s barely noon.

“Hey,” Tony continues, “Couple of drunk, dirty _sbirri_ ain’t no match for us.” He pats himself in the chest.

Matteo rolls his eyes and drags Tony the rest of the way down the hall, chastising him in Italian the whole way. Emilia smiles, quietly impressed.

She opens the door, and Luca is standing almost directly on the other side, clearly listening. He’s dressed down, for him: button-down shirt with suspenders over, and trousers. His hands are in front of him, one playing with a ring on the other. Toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth. 

She limps inside and clicks the door shut behind her, “Did you actually kill them? Or just —”

“What?” He asks softly, head bobbing to the side, “You’re saying you think a pair of filthy cops who’re skulking around the streets of Birmingham at night, ready to attack any woman who walks past deserve to live?” He bites down on the toothpick.

She smiles, his pronunciation of the city always gets her: Burr-ming-ham, the hard ‘r’, every syllable getting equal attention.

She takes in his slightly dishevelled appearance, fiddling, like he’s a little keyed-up. It leaves no doubt in her mind what he had just been doing, that Tony was not exaggerating. She guesses she should feel honoured that Luca would deign to deal with the two police himself, and not just send his lackeys. She doesn’t know what she feels about it.

“That’s not what I said.”

He doesn’t reply.

“Any woman?” She reiterates, turning away and hanging up her coat.

“Mm, don’t think they knew who you were, just unlucky,” he eyes her form, “And stupid.” How could they not see it? The unyielding sense of self-preservation she couldn’t lose if she tried; the rage, the knife, and the complete confidence to use it. The fact that she was back here at all, proved it.

Selfishly, it made him feel more confident in turn.

“Didn’t know if you’d come back after last night,” he says, keeping his eyes on the floor in front of where she’s standing, as she turns back around.

She steps into his space, eyeing his chest through the first few open buttons of his shirt, eyeing the ink peeking out.

“Didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”

Luca looks down at her, the top of her head only just comes up to his chin standing this close. He wants to laugh suddenly, how did she do that? He twirls the pick from one side of his mouth to the other, smirking around it. “Why do I feel so much better with you around?” He asks, playfully suspicious.

Emilia thinks for a second, “Maybe I just tire you out, so you actually fucking sleep for once.” Which, if that’s the case, she’s honestly jealous. She can practically feel the bags under her eyes.

He chuckles lightly, laugh lines appearing. “No,” he draws out, eyes roaming over her face, “I can feel it immediately.”

Emilia doesn’t know what to say to that, she changes the subject.

“Luca, we have to talk about the match.” Tommy’s meeting reminding her they hadn’t had a chance to discuss it yet. 

He never mentioned his plans to make a move at the fight to her, but of course she would have presumed. She’s avoiding his slightly more serious topic though, but it’s alright. For once in his life, he’s happy to wait, more than happy, as long as she stays right where she is. He tosses the toothpick, his eyes on hers, serious. He reaches out and strokes a thumb over the cut on her head, gingerly. The only problem is, he’s not sure how long they have.

“I want you to stay with me now, after this.” He rests his hand on the side of her head, cradling it.

She wants to argue, to let him know she didn’t need coddling after she was inadvertently captured by Russians. But, there’s something about the way he’s looking at her. Something about the pleading of the phrase, _stay with me,_ that stops her. That makes her nod and sink forward into him.

“_Restare_.” He whispers it into her hair over and over, like a fucking prayer.

* * *

The next morning, she’s sitting with one leg up on her chair, resting a bowl of porridge between her knee and her chest. Holding the paper in one hand, and her spoon in the other. 

Luca eyes the bowl warily from over her shoulder. “This country and it’s fucking food,” he snorts softly, as he moves to sit opposite her at the desk. Reclining slowly, spreading himself out in the chair like a large cat. “Although, I must say, I’m finding it strangely appealing today,” Luca smirks, hiding it behind his hand.

Emilia looks down at the bowl, situated directly in her cleavage. She rolls her eyes, but offers him a spoonful which he takes, chewing apprehensively. A mixture of emotions cross his face before he settles on a pouty sort of pleasantly surprised face.

“Not bad.”

She grins over at him. Things felt different today for a myriad of reasons. There was nothing between them now. Emilia hadn’t expected to feel such a relief at the reveal of her secret, but it was unmistakable. She felt like she could breathe in front of him for the first time. 

On a more domestic level, she had never slept the night before, and had therefore never seen him in his morning routine. He was an early riser. Luca had washed and shaved already and was in the process of doing up the buttons on his crisp, white shirt that had been dropped off that morning. He smelled like freshly cleaned linen.

“Matteo’s gonna be here soon,” he hums. 

She looks up, trying to gauge his meaning. She was only in her satin slip, her hair unbound and unbrushed.

“Should I go?” She asks tentatively.

“No,” he replies immediately, too quick maybe, “No— uh, stay here.” He puts his hand out to emphasise ‘here’, before resting his jaw on it again, hiding another small smile.

She puts her bowl down and gets up to pull on her dress from yesterday, “You _know_ Matteo doesn't trust me.”

“Well, he can be a smart guy sometimes,” Luca grins wider. She glares at him from the other side of the room. “Matteo doesn't trust you because it's kind of his job to dig up things on people,” Luca clarifies, “And, he couldn't find anything on you.”

She combs her fingers through her dark waves, “You tell him that it's kind of my job to be un-dig-up-able.”

A knock on the door.

“You tell him yourself,” Luca replies, sly.

She doesn’t know where to stand, so she puts herself behind the desk too, next to Luca still seated in his chair.

Matteo enters. His eyes narrow when he notices her still here, immediately suspicious. Emilia stares him down. She won’t be made to feel unwelcome, not here.

Luca reaches his hand out and rests it on the small of her back, just holding her next to him. He nods at Matteo to continue. He does, but his voice wavers at the start. Emilia can’t help but enjoy it. Was he embarrassed?

Matteo speaks to him in Italian, and Luca replies in English.

Emilia picks up on snippets of the conversation but is becoming increasingly distracted by Luca’s hand trailing up and down the small of her back. She looks down at the desk, trying to collect her thoughts, and is hit with a visual of what happened directly on this desk only a few days ago. Jesus, if Matteo was embarrassed now, she thinks, trying not to laugh suddenly.

She must make a noise because Luca looks over, still nodding along with Matteo’s conversation. His face is serious but there’s something in his eyes and she can tell he’s thinking the same thing. She shuffles her feet. 

Luca looks up at her, she’s standing tall, her arms folded confidently; presenting a united front, despite her eyes frequently flickering down to the desk. She looks good standing next to him, too good.

Luca’s hand tightens on her back and in one swift movement, he pulls her down to sit directly in his lap. Muttering a little, “Sit down,” on the way, so it comes out as more of a _‘siddown’_. 

Matteo’s eyes widen, but he says nothing, even he wouldn’t dare.

Emilia stifles her gasp, only just. It’s jarring at first, but Luca keeps his hand on her and carries on his discussion like nothing has even happened. And gradually, she relaxes into it, into him. She rests an elbow over his shoulder, and levels her gaze back at the man standing across from them.

She leans back against his arm and chest, settling her form into his, and the sheer proximity sends a thrill through him. Luca finds he desperately wants to whisper all sorts of nasty shit into her ear, while she’s this close. But he also knows she wouldn’t want to be compromised like that in front of Matteo of all people, so he refrains. Maybe another time.

Apparently, Emilia has the same idea, though.

She knows it’s a power move on Luca’s part, to drape her over himself like this, but perhaps most surprisingly, she does feel more powerful in turn. Which is probably why, when Matteo ends one of his replies with a casual, “Certo, Capo,” Emilia can’t help herself.

She turns her face slightly, angling her mouth toward Luca’s ear and repeats the Italian. “Certo, Capo,” she whispers, only barely loud enough for him to hear. She whispers it into his ear but keeps her eyes on Matteo. Luca’s hand tightens on her side and he turns his face to watch her. She can feel the intensity of his gaze, and squirms against him for good measure.

Something flashes across Matteo’s face, when Luca looks at her. Something like apprehension, something in the vein of ‘that can’t be good’. Which she could understand, she did feel a little like the snake in the garden, a little like Lady Macbeth, literally whispering in his ear. While she knows Matteo can’t even glare at her for fear of retribution. File that away for future use, she thinks.

Eventually, Matteo says something that makes Luca twist his head back in his direction. Luca nods, “Okay. Bring a car around for me downstairs.”

Matteo gratefully rushes out of the room without saying another word.

Luca turns back, pressing a kiss into her cheek. “I gotta go,” he sighs. She hadn’t really expected anything else since hearing Matteo was arriving.

She looks down at him, pragmatic. He’ll tell her later. “If you gotta go, you gotta go,” she replies, in a scarily accurate impression of his accent. Luca laughs into her shoulder. 

He nips at her jaw, then with firm hands on her hips, stands them both up. Luca moves away to continue getting dressed, as Emilia sits back down in the desk chair warmed by him. She watches him, resting her head on her hand. He strides around the room confidently, throwing on a waistcoat, pocket watch, tie, cuff-links. It was much more involved than her throwing her silk dress about her shoulders. She secretly liked it.

He’s tying his tie in the mirror when he sees her watching him. Luca’s reflection smirks at her in the mirror. Okay, not so secretly, she guesses. He tucks the tie into his waistcoat and grabs his jacket off the dresser, quickly pulling it on. She gets up, meeting him at the dresser. There’s an array of pocket squares placed on top of it. She picks the one that matches his tie the most and folds it delicately before placing it in his jacket pocket. She lets her hands linger on his chest. Luca stands tall, his eyes warm as he gazes down at her, but she can see him slowly closing off. A mask of indifference falling over his face, prepping for the world outside, for the Luca Changretta everyone else gets to see.

“Good choice,” he says, quietly. He leans forwards, places a quick kiss on the top of her forehead, next to her cut there. He makes his way for the door.

She folds her arms in front of her and leans against the dresser.

He picks his hat off the stand and opens the door, looking back at her, “We’ll finish this later.”

“I’ll be here.” 

He winks and turns and leaves.

She goes to the window, to inspect. It looks directly down onto the street below. Luca gets into a car, she can see Tony driving, and two other men in there. No trace of the good-natured, near-constantly smirking man she had been living up here with. He was all business, the second he left.

Matteo stays behind, he mills about on the street for a little while, completely unaware she’s watching. Maybe he had been put on guard duty outside the hotel? That would piss him off for sure, Emilia thinks. Then, another car pulls up, this one she doesn’t recognise the driver of. The two of them chat through the passenger window for a while, before Matteo opens the door to get in.

Emilia has never moved so fast, she’s got her shoes and coat on, and is out the door in less than five seconds. She’s down on the street before she has a chance to second guess her actions, but she was here now, and she had always been taught to follow a hunch. She jumps into the nearest cab and tells the driver to follow that black car.

* * *

“Mia?” Is the first thing he calls out upon entering the room.

“Yeah,” she replies, from her place on the lounge where she was reading.

“One second, Doll,” he rushes to his desk, “Wanna get this down.”

She gets up, following him into the room, standing just by the desk, letting her hip rest against the edge of it. He’s dropped his hat and coat by the door but has kept his jacket on in his haste. His furious scrawling stops, and he picks up his note to re-read it. “We can order up some dinner, in a minute, if you like. You’re probably starved,” he says, still reading. He hasn’t looked over at her yet, and Emilia bites her lip, waiting for the moment he does.

In the spirit of honesty, she decides to tell him about her day.

“I followed Matteo today,” she tells him. Letting her fingers idly trace along the design in the wood of the desk.

“I thought you stayed here today?” Luca glances over but ends up doing a double take. Finally looking at what she’s wearing, he spins around to face her, taking it all in. She had come back from her snooping expedition, decided to have a bath, and instead of putting her dirty clothes back on had plucked one of his white dress shirts from the dresser. She knew he was particular about his fashion, but somehow, she didn’t think he would mind too much. The shirt was too big for her, obviously, so she had to roll up the sleeves a couple of times. And while the length covered her, it was only just, letting him know she couldn’t have anything else on underneath. She had left the first couple of buttons undone, just for fun. 

“I did. Until I, you know, just happened to be looking out the window,” Luca’s eyebrows furrow at her response. “He got into a strange car, and I thought, I can’t not follow him. So, I did.”

  
  
Luca leans back in his ornate desk chair, eyes appraising, “And?”

“And nothing.” She crosses her arms. “He went exactly where you told him to, did exactly what you said,” she says this like it annoys her. A smirk creeps over Luca’s face. He holds a hand out to her, still smiling, and pulls her closer towards him. Her bare legs stepping into the space between his open thighs. 

“Only juicy thing I got was him shit-talking me to the other men.” She’s pouting a little.

Luca laughs out loud at that. She turns in his space, and sits in his lap again, just like this morning.

His hands go to her hips immediately, warming the skin there through the thin material. “What did he say?” He teases.

She leans back against Luca’s chest, leans into his touch. “Oh, you know the usual, can’t be trusted, all that. And, then something I couldn’t quite understand.”

Luca makes a questioning ‘_Hm_?’ sound into the side of her throat.

“Something _per le palle_? I don’t know that word.”

Luca nearly chokes, “Tenere qualcuno per le palle?” He asks, incredulous.

As usual, the muttering of Italian in her ear, sends a shudder down her spine. Mixed with the rumble of his chest pressed against her back, it has her squirming in his lap. 

“Yeah, something like that,” she replies, a little breathy.

“Well, I can imagine that’s not in the textbooks. Means he thinks, you’ve got me by the balls.”

It’s her turn to laugh at that.

He mouths at her ear, breathing into it, “You follow him looking like this?” His large hands trail up the soft skin of her thighs, toying with the hem of his shirt.

“No, not like this.” The rough skin of his jaw rubs against her neck, and she puts her hand up behind his head to hold him there. “This is for you.”

Luca groans, “He might be right about you, you know that?” He grinds his hips up into hers.

And, yeah. She had thought of him asking her to wear his ring and had just known the shirt would do the trick. 

A moan escapes her lips, “_Ugh_, Capo.” 

Luca's not even going to pretend being called boss by her doesn't completely do it for him.

They fuck right there in the desk chair. Luca peeling his shirt off her, leaving her completely naked in his lap. While she just undoes his fly and presses his hardness inside her, leaving him otherwise fully clothed. It’s a slow grind, the friction and contrast of his suit all up against her back. His large thighs keep hers open, as his hands roam freely across her chest and torso. 

She wonders when she’ll ever get sick of this.

* * *

They order up food afterwards, and eat it in the bed, both sitting back against the headboard. A tray spread out between them. Luca is a picker of food, she realises. Mostly ignoring the food on his plate but will distractedly pluck a piece off every now and then. She even catches him doing it from her side, doesn’t even think he knows he’s doing it. It spoke of abundant family meals, everyone taking a bit of what they wanted. The formality of the English teatime, nowhere to be found.

She says as much, and Luca’s face goes still like he’s remembering something.

"Can I ask —" he begins, "How did it happen?"

"What?" She asks.

"Angel," he says in a quiet voice.

It’s so out of left field, it takes her a moment to figure out what he means: his brother’s death.

Emilia's voice stutters at the start, "Luca, you must know how it happened."

"I know what my father told me, whatever the police told him probably." He's not quite looking at her. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even know how to begin.

Luca continues, his voice a low murmur, "I was gonna come over the second I heard, already had my guys assembled, but my father didn’t want me to, insisted he had it handled." He sighs, "And I had to respect his wishes." A beat. "And now he’s dead too."

The guilt, she can’t imagine.

"But you know her right, the girl? You mentioned her." Lizzie, he means. 

He does look up at her now, large hazel eyes, almost pleading, "I want to hear it from you— from your perspective."

And if she couldn't give him anything else, she would give him this.

She tells him how it started, how it started with John really. Doesn’t tell him how she was hoping it would end with John, too.

He got back from war, no wife, and it turns out it’s shit to raise a bunch of kids on your own, so everyone decided he needed a wife. John had always liked Lizzie, he decided he was going to marry her. Until the rest of the family intervened.

"They objected to Lizzie’s— um, _line of work_ should we say," she hesitates over the correct phrasing.

Luca frowns for a moment, then it dawns on him, "Oh."

Then, he rolls his head back against the headboard with a thud, "Oh shit." He almost laughs, "Angel always had the worst taste in women."

"Runs in the family, does it?" She waggles her eyebrows at him.

Luca smirks over at her.

“So, Tommy arranges a marriage for John that is mutually beneficial to all parties, especially the Tommy Shelby party. But John, he never let it go. Never let go of whatever he had for Lizzie.”

She wasn’t in the country for the next part but tells him how she understood it to have happened. Lizzie had started seeing Angel, innocent enough. Only John, being married himself, doesn’t really have any reason to object, so he drunkenly convinces Arthur to help him burn down Angel's restaurant.

“To send him a message, I guess. And also, just keep him away.”

Luca nods, he keeps his face placid, but he remembered. He remembered Angel calling after the fire, he had been proud of the place. To finally have his own establishment, somewhere not their father’s, not Luca’s, just his.

“Lizzie won’t let it go, so they look deeper into Angel. Decide he has enough nefarious connections to be an unsuitable match for her, now that she works for the company officially.”

Luca scowls.

John's motivations are essentially 'If I can’t have you, nobody can'. "It’s too bad really, he didn’t know Tommy had been fucking Lizzie for years," she tells Luca. "Too bad, she’s literally pregnant with his child right now."

Luca's eyes widen. 

"Yeah,” Emilia agrees, “Anyway, your father objected to that, they objected to being confronted about that, and decide to be giant children about it and cut up Angel.” She knows he knows this part. “The rest is history: Tommy’s wife, your father, us here now.”

He stays silent, thinking over what she has just said.

“What was today?” She asks.

He sighs, kicking his legs out across the bed, crossing them at the ankles.

“Solomons is helping us with the fight.” She had figured as much. “And he asked for something,” Luca leans his head fully back against the wall and rubs a hand over his eyes. “Something which is well— y’know,” he finishes rather unconvincingly.

She pushes the tray away, and tucks her legs up under her, so she’s angled more towards him. She was back in his shirt from before, and so follows his gaze as it trails up her bare legs.

“You don’t say? Alfie Solomons asked you for something and it’s turned out to be a complete hassle?” She snorts.

Luca laughs softly, raising one eyebrow at her, “Are you sure you’ve never met him?”

She waits a beat, but can’t help herself, now that he brought it up. “About the fight,” she begins, gently.

His face drops. “I don’t wanna talk to you about the fight,” Luca replies obstinate. He turns his head away, towards the fireplace on the far wall.

The dismissal stings a little coming from him, she knew the nature of their relationship had changed since the beginning, but she wasn’t about to be completely domesticated just yet. “C’mon, Luca,” she tries, “No secrets anymore.” 

He looks over at her with a guilty sort-of ‘don’t use that against me’ expression.

“Are you going to be there at least?” She asks.

Luca contemplates a moment, before answering. “No,” he sighs, “And, neither are you.”

And, if she wasn’t going to put up with being rebuffed, she definitely wasn’t going to put up with him outright ordering her around. Never mind, she hadn’t planned on going, anyway. Luca must see her expression change bitterly, because just as she opens her mouth to argue he grabs her hand, placating.

“Please, Mia. Just stay away from it, trust me.” And she did these days, which was maybe worst of all. Her mouth snaps closed.

“I don’t trust them not to blame you if something goes down,” Luca holds her hand up to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

“_If_?” She repeats. Who did he think he was kidding? 

“Don’t ask it of me,” he presses into her hand, “'Cause I wanna give you everything, I want to give you everything you ask for.” He looks up at her, pleading, “But I can’t tell you some things.”

She leaves her hand in his grip, but her eyes are still intense on his. “I think the fight’s a misdirect,” she grumbles, voice not bothering to hide her frustration.

He lets his head fall back against the wall, giving in, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t think Tommy actually wants to get into training boxers. I think he just needs the stage, and Solomons is supplying it.” She waves her hand in front of them, emphasising. “You’re going to make a move there and I don’t think you should because he’s expecting it.” Luca opens his mouth to retort, but she ploughs on. “Just like on the estate. Neither of you told anyone about it and he was still ready with his fucking submachine gun—”

“You know, you could have told me about the gun,” he intercedes.

“How was I supposed to drop that in? 'Oh, by the way he has a fuck-off big gun, you might want to watch out for that’,” she replies, sarcastic.

He carries on, seemingly ignoring her quip.

“— could have told me about the kid."

Emilia turns to face him fully. “There’s a lot of things I could have told you,” she answers pointedly. Luca’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t agree. “So what? _You _want to kill his unborn child?”

“No,” he shrugs, cagey, “But, you know, maybe we could meet her.” Emilia stares at him, face unimpressed. “Just have a chat,” Luca finishes casually, but she hears the underlying implication. She was much better at reading him these days.

She turns away from him, again. “I know it might seem like it, but I'm not in the business of threatening my friends,” she grumbles, “What happened to honour?” She knew the terms of the vendetta Luca had proposed, knew how these things were supposed to be fought, in theory.

“These people have no honour,” Luca glares, “They already broke that. They broke that when they killed my brother for no fucking reason.” He thinks of Solomons, of his request. “They have no morals, betray one another at the drop of a hat, and I’m in this shit with them. We both are,” he spits out, “There’s no honour here.”

She rolls her eyes, she didn’t care that he fought dirty. But Lizzie was a step too far, and he knew it. “Believe it or not, I'm not with you because I think you're a bastion of morality,” she scoffs.

“Why then?” He asks, just a little too forcefully. 

She doesn’t answer. Luca breathes deep, sighing.

“Where else should I make my move then, huh?” He asks, more gently. “’Cause this is great,” he gestures between the two of them, “I mean, you got me _beat_, doll. I could do _this _forever.” His voice goes deep in implication, and her thigh twitches in response.

“But I’ve got a life outside of this, outside of the vendetta, people I work for, people that depend on me, a mother, all wondering where the fuck I am,” he stops himself, before he can’t. She didn’t need to know every little one of his internal problems. She had a habit of opening him up, of prying out what was in there, and had probably guessed most of what he had to say, anyway. “I came here with a job to do, and I haven’t done it.” If he didn’t get it done soon, Luca was sure he was going to lose his mind.

“That, and I could never stand this shit.” Frustrated, he gently kicks at the tray at the end of the bed knocking it off its precarious balance. It clatters to the floor noisily.

She shakes her head, “Italians and their fucking food,” she says, trying to tamp down her smirk.

He huffs a small laugh, “I’m American.”

Emilia shrugs, “More’s the pity.”

She scoots down the bed now that it’s unobstructed and lays down, her head on the pillow looking up at him.

“Tell me,” she begins, and Luca nearly rolls his eyes, she was determined to get some sort of information out of him tonight. “If your parents are Brummies why didn’t you grow up here?” She asks.

He thinks about it for a while then answers, “When my brother and I were very small, my father decided we should be raised in America.” His face grew softer as he reminisced over his childhood, in a way she was sure hers did not. 

“His extended family were already split between New York and Italy at the time. Made sure we grew up knowing the culture, knowing the city, the other families, I guess. But they couldn’t leave this place behind.” His mother, specifically, couldn’t leave behind the place where they had met. It hurts a little to think of her now, in a place she never really wanted to be, all alone.

Luca carries on, “We would come over to England occasionally. As we grew up, Angel took more of a liking to it over here, whereas I, uh— did not.” He presses his lips together.

“Ah yes,” Emilia says, from her place down beside him, her voice lilting. “I think I’ve heard that one from the others. Something about a bad robbery and some potential jail time?”

Luca smirks, remembering. “You know, when you’re young and stupid, and everything seems like a good idea? Until it ain’t. Anyway, my father decided I couldn’t come back after that. And I was mostly thankful for it.”

“And now, because of all that you’re the very man I see before me.” 

He exhales a scoff, “Yeah, I’m the guy who can’t even avenge his brother and father.” He lies down beside her, with a soft grunt, and stretches his arms up underneath his head.

She wants to argue that; she had meant it as a compliment, but Luca continues on before she can.

“I resented my father for wanting to stay though, I think. We would have been stronger together, maybe none of this would have happened.” And he’s right, the strength of the family unit had always been the Shelby’s biggest advantage, and her biggest grievance.

Luca stares up into the ceiling, his voice becoming soft and distant, “But then he was gone too, and all that resentment just became regret.” That he never got to make amends really, with any of them.

Emilia examines his profile, glad he was telling her, but didn’t like this far-off look on him. She was at least familiar with this one though; the same deep-rooted, familial grief she had seen on her own face many times.

“Well, if you feel that way,” she begins, trying to lighten the mood again, “I have an idea. Maybe fuck the vendetta?” 

Luca looks at her out the corner of his eye with a small grin, “You would say that, you fuckin’ Shelby.”

Before she can reply he rolls over onto her, tucking his head against her chest.

Her hand comes up instinctively to the back of his head. “I just— you mentioned all these people, all this shit, why put yourself through it?” She trails off, knowing the answer before she even finishes her sentence. His regret was his fuel, he wouldn’t be the person he was without that, without that drive.

They lay together, Luca’s head rising and falling with the beat of her breathing.

“All this over some _puttana_,” he murmurs eventually, into the fabric covering her chest, referring to her earlier story about Lizzie.

“Hey, that _puttana’s _one of my oldest friends,” she scolds softly, running her nails through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Besides, I think you and Angel might _actually _have the same bad taste in women; Lizzie and I used to get asked if we were sisters all the time if we were out together.” The blue eyes and dark hair had been enough for most people who assumed that connection, but that was where it ended really.

“Oh yeah?” Luca eyes the bare bit of chest he can see through her open shirt neck. “You wanna give me her number?” He moves up, pressing a kiss to the skin there.

“Oh, yeah,” Emilia replies, breathy, “She’s lovely. Imagine me, but taller, —”

He cuts her off, “I don’t want her, I want you.”

It stops her for a second, her hand tightening inadvertently on the back of his neck. He was simmeringly close to saying something else.

He settles himself half on top of her, mouthing his way tenderly up her chest to her neck. They fit together so nicely. “I like you just the way that you are,” he sighs. 

She tries to play it off, “Well, we already know how fucked-up you are.”

“You gonna try to fix me?” He says, half into her neck, half into the pillow.

She breathes for a beat, then, “I don’t want to fix you. I like you the fucked-up way that you are.”

It’s as close as they can come to a true declaration right now, to the other thing, so they take it.

* * *

“Are you coming, Emilia?”

Emilia was simmering with frustration. She feels unsettled about how they left things the other night, something in the pit of her stomach gnaws away at her.

She can’t believe it’s fight day and she has no idea what the fuck is going on. She was back in Small Heath, at Polly’s, watching the other women getting excitedly dressed up for the match. Luca had gone back down to London, probably to officially end Alfie Solomons, now that they had what they wanted, if his mood the other night was any indication. But she knew he was planning something for tonight, and she can’t even warn the others because she doesn’t fucking know how.

“No.”

“Where are you going to be? Off with your Italian?”

  
  
She glares, “No.” Ada and Linda totter out of the room together, cackling the whole way about: “Trouble in paradise.”

Lizzie follows them out, leaving only Polly behind. She’s hesitating in the doorway. “I’ve a meeting to get to, Pol,” Emilia lies.

Polly’s face is all scrunched up, she looks concerned. “He doesn’t hurt you, does he?”

Emilia could laugh. Now she cares. Still, the more rational part of her brain supposes it’s better late than never. “No,” she answers with a sigh. Polly still hasn’t moved, her eyes flicker like she’s remembering something.

Emilia tries to be more convincing, “You’ve met him. You’ve seen how he can be. He’s —” she searches for the appropriate word, “— charming, when he wants to be.” 

She hides a smile behind her palm. The word seems so lacklustre for everything she had ever felt in Luca’s presence. She also knew Polly's meeting with him had been brief but she was confident Luca could charm the pants off anyone, if given the chance.

“Yeah, he’s also proven he can be entirely dangerous when he wants to be.”

Emilia looks seriously up at her aunt, “I’m doing okay, Pol.”

Finally convinced, Polly nods solemnly and leaves.

“We’re going to be okay,” she whispers aloud to no one.

Then, everything goes to shit. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
  
glossary of untranslated terms:  
Dio/Dio mio/Oh mio Dio - God/My God/Oh my God etc  
Sì, sì, certo sì - Yes, yes, of course yes  
Tu non sai cosa mi fai, - You don't know what you do to me,  
L'infinità - Infinity  
Andiamo - Come on/Let's go  
Sto migliorando, - I'm getting better,  
Ti prego, Dio, sì - Please, God, yes  
dolcezza - sweetness  
amore - love  
La mia - my/mine  
Non riesco a pensare bene, - I can't think straight,  
Polizia - Police  
Uccidili - Kill them  
So perché non me l'hai detto. Ma non mi piace. - I know why you didn't tell me. But I do not like it.  
tesoro - treasure/sweetheart/darling  
sbirri - cops  
Restare - Stay  
puttana - whore/prostitute  
  
  



	2. a necessary end,

She doesn’t see Luca in the days after the fight, after Arthur’s death. 

She finds herself caught between a rock and a hard place. Tommy makes sure she’s neck-deep in Shelby business. A not-so subtle attempt to keep her under his watch. She knows what the Italian’s next plan will be: muscle up, put down one final bit of pressure. When it will come is all that’s up in the air right now. Normally she would be the one to work that out, liaise with Changretta as she had been doing, but Tommy has all but ordered her not to. And, she needs to keep Tommy close right now, figure out his next step. Figure out _his _plan before she can work around it.

She’s troubled by what Luca will think of her radio silence. She doesn’t answer any phones, doesn’t go home really at all, for fear Luca will be waiting for her there. Is mostly troubled by the fact that it troubles her at all. 

But Luca doesn’t make contact. Emilia hears word of Audrey Changretta seen getting off a ship in Liverpool. So, she figures his plate must be full at the moment, too.

* * *

Tommy sends Michael away, and Emilia’s livid. She storms into his office the next day when she finds out. She knows they told her late on purpose, too late to do anything about it. Too late to say goodbye.

Tommy is ruthless at the best of times, but she knows he becomes feral when at a loss.

“Your boyfriend’s the reason we’re sending him,” Tommy says, pulling off his glasses and sighing.

“Bullshit, Tom!” She yells across the desk from him. “You turn him into you, you turn him into a weapon, and then you cast him out the second he makes a decision that _you_ would have made.”

The man doesn’t even bother defending himself from that one, just stands to meet her eye level.

Tommy asks her for a contact in Chicago, and New York. 

“What?” Emilia can’t hide the shock in her voice.

“You have colleagues still in place in America?” He’s speaking more to the desk than to her.

“Yes,” she answers cautiously.

“I need their information,” he says like that’s it, like that’s nothing.

Emilia looks around the room, searching for answers. He can’t be serious. “Tommy, I could get —”

“I know.” He cuts her off. “You could lose your job, you could go to prison, you could be hanged, I know. But it’s our only option.”

“I don’t think you understa—”

“You might have fucked your way into Luca Changretta’s head, but that’s not an option for all of us.”

Emilia’s mouth snaps shut. She blinks at the man across from her a couple of times before turning away. He was right, technically. Bastard. She chews the nail of her thumb absent-mindedly. “I can’t believe you,” she starts, shaking her head.

Tommy’s eyes roll skywards.

“No, I can't _believe _you're playing this angle, Tommy.” Emilia spins back around, “If it were the mafia, the real mafia who'd come after you, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

She feels vaguely guilty for undermining Luca, his many accomplishments, his family’s empire, but she desperately needs Tommy to change his mind, so she doubles down.

“You got lucky, what you got was one angry New Yorker and his cousins.”

Tommy rests his clenched fists on the desk in front of him, “I know, that’s why I want to talk to them now.” He looks pointedly up at her. “It’s this or we all die, Em,” he says quietly, but she can hear the barely contained anger underneath. “Now give me the numbers,” he bangs one fist on the wood.

She hesitates.

“I could do it without you, but I thought you might actually want to help.”

That shocks her into action. He might actually get it done if he does it without her help, and that won’t do. 

“Okay, okay,” Emilia holds up her hands in surrender, “But the numbers are always changing, give me— give me a day. I’ll get you what you need.” She sighs, looking down, selling the downtrodden angle.

He seems placated by that.

Only, it’s like she speaks Luca into being. She sits in the betting shop after, it’s dark and everyone else has gone home, but she’s still stewing over Michael. Can’t get over how it feels mildly like a punishment to her as well, and how fucking self-centred that is, when the phone rings loudly, startling her out of her reprieve.

Emilia has never answered the shop phone in her life, but something pulls her to it this time.

She picks up the receiver, not saying anything.

The person on the other end of the line stays silent too. And then, sighs gravelly.

She knows it's him.

She desperately wants to tell him, warn him for what she’s about to do, but she can't. Can't even let him know she’d still come running at his word. If he asked, if he said, ‘I'm leaving tomorrow, come with me,’ she would drop everything. But he doesn’t say it, doesn’t say anything.

And a familiar sinking feeling washes over her.

If Luca doesn't show up when Tommy plans, if he's too familiar, too nice about her when he does, then the whole jig is up. Tommy can't know too early, can't know she's never going to let anything happen.

So, she pushes him away; the only person who ever really gave a shit. Emilia sighs.

“Don’t call here again,” she chokes out.

She hears the receiver slam down on the other end of the line, cutting off.

* * *

She decides, to properly set up Tommy, she’s going to need help. So, she goes to find the worst person she knows. And somewhere between Small Heath and Stratford, something else clicks for her.

Anderson was never put on her tail. He had always been on Luca’s.

She posts up in the building across the block from the hotel and waits for him to show himself.

“I need your help.” Is what she says from the shadow behind him when he finally does turn up.

Anderson doesn’t even turn around. “God, I’ve been waiting for this day for years.”

She wanders the room, coming to a stop next to him. “I know you’re like me, you like to play all angles, exhaust all options,” Emilia looks out the window they’re in front of, the one he had apparently been using to observe the whole street. “How long have you been working for the Americans?”

Anderson grins at her reflection in the glass, “How long you got?”

She rolls her eyes. This asshole, always giving up his cover so easily.

She tells him her plan, most of it, the parts he needs to know. And he just nods in response.

“Okay, consider this one on the house.” He shrugs, “I owe you.”

She doesn’t have time to pause, to consider the magnanimity.

“Yeah, you do.”

* * *

Tommy asks her to sit in on the meeting with Mrs. Changretta, and her stomach drops. Would the old lady recognise her as the same woman Luca had mentioned? She almost wants to meet her, meet the woman she’d heard so much about. But Emilia's sure Tommy’s intentions are less than virtuous. 

“Really, Tommy? Bit petty, isn’t it?” She’s not sure whether he’s doing it to punish her, or Audrey Changretta. Either way it seems like a low blow on his part.

He side steps her complaint, “We need to present a united front, and she’s the spokesman for that family right now.”

She’s a short, unassuming sort of woman. She looks exactly like a schoolteacher should look, not a schoolteacher who happens to be heavily embroiled in the New York Mafia. That is exactly why Luca had sent her in, Emilia realises belatedly. Emilia scans her for any visible correlation to the man she had come to know so well. All she finds is a familiar pair of large, serious, hazel eyes, if it weren’t for that they could be unrelated.

“Who did you think you were, Mr. Shelby?” She asks scathingly, and gets up to leave, apparently satisfied with Tommy’s silence. The eyes, and the same fierce sense of righteousness, this was what Luca had inherited.

It seemed callous to send your own mother across that field, white flag in hand, but she saw now it was purely tactical. The old woman might have even come up with it herself. It’s just too bad Tommy Shelby had no problem lying to anyone, regardless of who they were.

“And you,” she turns her glowering gaze on Emilia, “I know about you.”

Emilia’s heart thumps in her chest. She looks up at the woman, trying to say it with her eyes. They’re setting you up. They’re going to fucking ruin you. 

Mrs. Changretta simply stares down her nose, “You might be the worst of them all.”

And, God, she has no clue. The poor woman.

* * *

Emilia’s presenting Tommy and Polly with the documents to sign when Lizzie comes storming in. She’s not asking for much, all she wants is for Tommy to visit her. Emilia can sympathise. A lousy, wordless phone call had left her a distracted mess for the past couple of days.

Polly tells her they’re planning for tomorrow. Lizzie is confused.

“He’s already taken over Alfie Solomons, Sabini, Titanics, all of them,” Emilia fills in for her. Luca had been busy in London.

“And now, he’s coming to take control of Shelby Company Limited,” Tommy finishes.

“What are we going to do about that?” Lizzie asks Tommy, because only an idiot would assume Tommy Shelby didn’t have a plan for this.

“We’re gonna let him have it.” 

Emilia shares a look with Polly, the double entendre not lost on them.

“Now, you’re going to go back to the house, put on some tea, and don’t think about it.” Lizzie rolls her eyes but leaves the room.

“And me?” Emilia asks, “Do I get tea now, too?” The question’s mostly teasing, she doesn’t usually seek out orders from Tommy Shelby. 

“No, you’re going to be there with us.”

She’d begun to pack up her things and swings sharply back around to him, “No.”

“Yes.” He’s not even looking at her, his eyes back on the documents over the desk.

Emilia shakes her head in disbelief, “Tom, look I sat in on your meeting with the old woman in purely a business capacity, but this is —”

“Business,” he picks up the files, brandishing them.

“Tommy,” Polly steps in, Emilia’s panic must be palpable, “Give the girl a break, she’s already helped us so much.”

“And, she can help us again.” It’s the final word on the matter, as Tommy gets up and stalks out after Lizzie.

Fuck, she would just have to pray Luca would forgive her one day.

She had a lot of work to do before tomorrow.

* * *

She waits in the alley, off the street where she knows the Italians park their cars. It’s right around the corner from the Hotel and is closer to Luca than she feels comfortable being right now. But she’s waiting for someone else.

She sees two men get out of the parked car, they mutter a few words and one takes off walking back up the street. The shorter of the men stays behind, resting against the car. He pulls out a cigarette.

“Need a light?” Emilia barks out from her spot in the dark.

The man spins around, hand reaching for his sidearm. He spots her and is visibly relieved, resting his hand against his chest.

“Emilia,” he replies, still a little shocked, “Mia, what are you, uh— how are you?” He’s looking away from her, can’t keep eye contact. Good, she thinks, he’s nervous.

She holds her lighter up to his cigarette, lighting the end. “I know what you’re all gonna do tomorrow, Tony.”

Tony about coughs up a lung.

“I’m here to help you.”

* * *

She’s late for Tommy’s ambush in the factory. She’s called a colleague who put her in touch with a doctor, her contact down at the border office, a lawyer, and her seedy bank manager. She’s called in nearly every favour she has ever amassed over the past couple of days, and is running mostly on fumes at this point, but there’s one more phone call she has to make— to make sure everything is finally in order.

“Em?” She can hear the smile in Michael’s voice.

“Is it done?” She asks, wishing she had time to chat. She’d missed her cousin, “Is it done, Michael?”

* * *

He rounds the corner into the cold distillery. There’s a table lined with bottles of gin, and behind it, standing in front of a large barrel, are four people: Tommy, the youngest Shelby, Polly, and her. His Emilia. Lord, he’d prayed she had just left the country, abandoned them all, anything over his worst assumptions being proven. But there she was. Her hair is loose, waves just brushing the edge of her shoulders. She’s wearing tapered trousers, a dark blouse, and lace-up boots. He can't decide if it's an imitation of Polly, or who she really was after all this time.

Her hands are shoved deep into the pockets of her long tweed coat, and she leans casually against one of the large barrels. Standing with them. Standing with her family, he corrects himself, bitterly. Luca tries not to stare. He didn't have the time to feel stupid about it, stew over how he got fucking played. God, he had hoped it wouldn’t come down to this.

Luca enters the factory, gang of mercenary thugs in tow, and Emilia barely feels anything. She had apparently worked out all her nervous energy planning the past few days and was left with nothing now that the time had actually come. 

“Guarda, guardali,” he gives a little smile as he says it, pleased with himself. _Look, look at them_. 

He doesn’t even really look at her, though. Which helps. 

“All that’s left of the Peaky fucking Blinders.” 

She chances a look at Tony, in amongst the men standing back, while Luca pontificates. His eyes are downcast, like he doesn’t want to be here at all. He won’t be a problem. 

Luca reaches into Tommy’s jacket, pulling out his gun, and orders them to all be searched.

“Especially don’t trust this bitch.” He pulls at Polly’s top, a little bit to check inside, a little bit to piss her off. Luca doesn’t give a fuck if it’s a dirty move.

He steps in front of Emilia, looking at her fully for the first time since he'd entered the room. Her face is carefully blank, almost bored, one of her myriad of skills. Right now, it only serves to annoy him.

Emilia reads his face as disappointment, with something else, something simmering behind his green-flecked eyes. She decides to try her luck. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, specifically using her right hand, flashing his ring on her finger. His eyes narrow and she sees his jaw muscle clench briefly.

She holds her arms out to be searched, “You know what I got where.” 

Luca thinks of the knife strapped to her leg and the tattoo on her ribs. 

He trails his eyes up and down her figure. “Yeah, and I ain’t worried,” he says, dismissively. 

Luca bypasses searching her and instructs his men not to either. She isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to see his men feel her up, or if he’s genuinely not worried. Either way, the Colt .45 tucked into the back of her pants, goes unnoticed, so Emilia doesn’t mind. She lets its presence there be a balm to her in this whole situation. 

Luca flips the table at Tommy’s reticence and it's desperation, she realises a beat too late. A seething desperation hiding in his eyes. A man pushed to the point of no return.

Then, Tommy plays his hand, and she’s never seen the bastard look more pleased with himself. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, though who’s who is unclear.

“You been talking to that fat fuck?” Luca balks.

It's a feeling of it all slipping, of unravelling. It’s ‘Et tu, Matteo?’ and Luca is Caesar in the middle of the senate. How Italian, her mind provides. Luca’s a cornered animal. So, he does what any cornered animal would do, he lashes out.

The fight breaks out, she’s almost glad Tommy and Luca get this moment, their parallel rage finally getting an outlet. Emilia, however, doesn’t see most of it, she quickly slinks behind one of the large barrels, getting into position. There are sounds of a scuffle; punches, grunting, shoes scraping on the concrete floor, glass smashing, and the sickening thump of flesh hitting hard wood repeatedly. She doesn’t have to think too hard to get an idea of what’s happening. She knows that Luca fights dirty, is all too prepared to, but nobody is ever really prepared for the mud, or glass in this case, that Tommy Shelby is willing to drag them through. 

Then, an all too unexpected voice rings out in the space. And, that’s as good a sign as any, she decides.

The gunshot rings out from behind Luca, the bullet narrowly missing Arthur Shelby’s head, where he stands across from the beaten Italian, and lodges itself in a far wall with a loud clang. Arthur flinches from the sound. Emilia emerges from her spot, .45 levelled at the oldest Shelby.

“Stand down, Arthur.” She’s not sure if she pushed Luca down and out of the way, or if he flinched from the sound of the shot like everyone else. Either way, he’s on the ground beside the gin barrel as Emilia stands over him, putting herself between him and Arthur’s bullet.

Arthur quickly raises his own gun back up, scoffing a little, “You don’t seem surprised to see me?”

Emilia’s quietly glad she hasn’t immediately been shot through the chest; it means her plan might just work. “I had an inkling. Tommy said you were gone, but nobody gets to see your body?”

Arthur blinks. 

“That, and you weren’t at any morgue in the city,” she finishes.

Arthur laughs, loudly. 

“Arthur,” Tommy warns, still breathing heavily from the fight.

“Look at you,” Arthur’s not listening, he tries to rile her up instead, “Too big for your boots, love.”

“Shoot her, Arthur,” Tommy says, ice cold. Behind him, Polly covers her mouth with a hand.

Arthur motions to her position, with his gun, “Look at this, big bad _Iti_ has to get his woman to protect him.” A few laughs from the room, but he’s stalling. For all that they have nearly no allegiance to each other, he still apparently needed a better reason to shoot her.

Luca grumbles slightly behind her, still on his knees, his mouth full of blood.

“No, you’re right, Arthur. He should just get loaded and rough his woman up like you, hey?” A low-blow, factually embellished, but he knows women talk, and it’s enough to stump the eldest Shelby, at least for a moment.

Arthur’s face crumples slightly, and his aim wavers, like he’s going to lower his gun.

“Move aside,” he barks out.

“Can’t do that,” she replies, even toned, shaking her head a little.

Arthur scoffs, but he still won’t do it, “You on their side now?”

She can’t give everything up, “I’m on my side. Same way I’ve always been. The way I had to be,” she lets her gaze flicker over to Polly.

In the split second she’s not looking at him, Tommy wrests the gun from Arthur and in one swift movement, raises it against her instead.

Emilia’s head turns to watch him, but she keeps the barrel pointed at Arthur, now unarmed. She discreetly signals with her other hand that this is okay. She doesn’t need Anderson getting trigger happy from his hiding spot, and blowing everything before she’s even had a chance to argue.

“We have his men, we have the gin licenses all set for New York,” Tommy is fully composed now, going for more of the practical approach with her. Which Emilia respects, but still leaves her wondering why neither of them has just shot her. Maybe they can’t.

“So, _do it_, Tom.” 

Luca gurgles from his spot on the floor. Out the corner of her eye she sees him fall onto one hand for balance. She’s running out of time.

“‘Cause they know I’m here,” she carries on, voice dipping a little, “If you think you can explain away _my _death in a room full of Italians and Peaky Blinders, do it.” She doesn’t like to pull the spy card often, kind of defeats the point. But, she figures if any situation calls for it, it’s this one. 

The corners of Tommy’s eyes crinkle, like he’d smile if he could, “Your kind show up dead all the time, Em.”

“Not in peace-time. Not usually,” she adds on.

Tommy swears and his grip on the handgun shifts. She can almost see his resolve slipping.

“You don’t want this, Tommy. You can’t go legitimate with a thing like this hanging over your head,” she motions to the whole room.

“I can try,” but even he doesn’t sound convinced himself.

Out the corner of her eye, she sees movement. One of the Italians is becoming restless, annoyed with Tommy’s procrastination. She could let Anderson handle it, knows he would have already spotted the trouble, but she lets her gaze flicker over for half a second, and it’s Matteo, because _of course_ it is. His face contorted in anger, as he reaches for his gun. And suddenly, she doesn’t want to let Anderson handle it.

Just as Matteo raises his weapon, she whirls her arm round and pulls her own trigger. He’s opening his mouth to say something as the bullet cuts through his forehead, leaving a bright red splatter on the white wall behind him. The other Italians jump back, scattering, and Matteo hits the stone floor with a loud thump that resonates through the warehouse, still ringing from the echo of her gunshot. 

Emilia lets out a long breath, and without missing a beat, swings her revolver back around to point at Tommy and Arthur. She can practically hear Anderson grinning from his spot in the dark, this being his own preferred method of negotiation.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Arthur breaks the silence, looking between her and Matteo’s spent body. Tommy’s watching her, incredulous, but something must snap in his mind. He lowers his own gun, sighing, and running his hand through his hair.

“Alright,” Tommy rasps out, nodding a little. 

She doesn’t dare lower her gun yet. All she can focus on is Luca’s shallow breathing, she feels him reach out and lightly touch her pant leg. She doesn’t know what it means, but she doesn’t like the way it sends a chill up her spine.

Tommy notices, “You still want him? After all this?”

She can’t answer that, not fully, not here. The deeper _‘Why_?’ is unspoken but she hears it regardless. Doesn’t know herself.

“Is it so _stunning _to you, that someone would not be on your side? That one of us,” she gestures to the rest of the family, “Would choose otherwise.” She can feel herself gaining momentum, but keeps her voice just barely above a whisper, “You never could accept it when Ada left, and you sent Michael away for the exact same thing.” Emilia lets her voice break over Michael’s name, but has to stop herself from saying anymore. He’s giving in, no need to anger him again. 

“You win, Tom,” she tries, slowly, “We just want to leave.”

Tommy’s face says he’s positive that’s not what the man on the floor behind her wants, but he motions towards the door, “Go on then, fuck off, you’ve shown your hand now.”

He’s apparently waiting for her to turn and leave, but Emilia knows it’s going to be a process getting Luca up and out of the warehouse. She flickers her gaze down to him, and gives Tommy a pleading look, hoping he’ll get her meaning. 

Tommy sighs and nods again. He raises a finger in warning to her. “Get out of the country. If I ever see you again, if you ever raise a finger against this family, that’s it,” he says, then turns and ushers the rest of the Peaky Blinders back out the way they came in. And it happens so quickly in the end, she can barely believe it’s happening at all.

Arthur stands in shock for a moment too, Tommy pushing on his shoulder eventually to get him to budge, his expression doesn’t change but he does turn and go, much to her relief. 

On their way out she hears him mention John. “It’s _over_, Arthur,” is all Tommy says in response. They all file out, Polly being the last one to leave. She shares a watery eyed look with Emilia before nodding once and following the others out. She trusts Anderson to make sure they actually leave, his final duty here.

Emilia breathes out steadily, trains her gun on the Italians who are lingering, looking to one another for some sort of direction. 

She gestures with the weapon to the open door the Shelby’s had just exited through, “Fuck off.” She glares at the lot of them. They look from her to Matteo still haemorrhaging blood onto the cold floor, and seemingly decide to take that option. “Figli di puttana,” she says after them, loud enough for them to still hear. 

One stays behind, loosely clutching his own gun, his eyes trained on the floor in front of him. She finally leaves her spot in front of Luca, walking over to the other man, her gun lowered but her finger still on the trigger. She looks past him to make sure the other Italians are well and truly gone before speaking.

“The papers are sorted,” she mutters close to him. Tony looks up at her finally. “You get Audrey, there’s a ship leaving in one hour,” she spits it out quickly, keeping her voice as quiet as will allow, “I won’t see you at the dock, we’ll see you in New York, in a few weeks.” Tony’s eyes are wide with concern, concern they don’t have time for. She silences his complaints with a look and rushes him off too. 

Finally, she’s alone with Luca, again.

She surges back over to him, dropping to her knees beside him. He looks at her through blood and pain and confusion. “Luca,” she whispers, she wants to brush his hair out of his face but aborts the movement when he flinches violently away from her hand. His breathing sounds twice as loud in the empty warehouse, it’s a wet, raspy sound. It doesn’t sound great. They can’t stay here staring into each other’s eyes forever. She crouches and gets an arm around the back of him, half lifting, half encouraging him to stand up, because there’s no way she could lift his dead weight. He pushes off the stone floor with one hand, the other grasping her shoulder tightly. “C’mon,” she prompts. 

Together they get him up. “Mia,” he exhales through clenched teeth, staring down at her.

“I know, I know,” she tells him, keeping her arm around his back, she rests her other hand on his chest to balance him. She walks them slowly to the hidden rear exit of the building.

She’d planned their entire escape on a hope and a prayer. A hopeful streak she didn’t think she could lose even if she tried, either that or just a fastidious, gnawing habit of planning for every eventuality, she hoped the former. But somehow, in all that, had missed the back exit of the warehouse having a particularly narrow, steep set of stairs leading to the ground.

They stand at the top landing and she curses herself for sending Tony off before doing this.

Finally, after lots of swearing and stumbling, they get to the bottom. She’s fucking sweating and he’s bleeding more than he was before, and they tumble into the car Tony had left for them there. Luca basically throwing himself across the backseat, Emilia trying to catch her breath in the driver’s.

She tosses her gun into the backseat, where it lands on his stomach. “Here,” she says, starting up the engine, “If you see any of them, use this.”

He looks at it, then her. His face, the part of it not concealed by blood, is incredulous. But she sees him grip the handle loosely, his finger tapping along the barrel.

Emilia guns it down the winding country lanes leading out of Birmingham. Tommy had said get out of the country and she wasn’t going to be able to do that for a while, so she was going to do the next best thing and get as far away from his city as fast as possible.

Luca looks up after about 20 minutes. “Where are we going? This isn’t the way to the port,” he rasps from behind her.

“You can’t get on a _boat _like this, Luca, you’ll end up fucking dead anyway,” she replies keeping her eyes forward, but she checks on him in the rear-view. He nods, and sinks down below the window again, shutting his eyes.

It’s the only thing he says the whole way.

They drive for about an hour before pulling up at a small, nondescript building. Emilia gets out, quickly rounding the car and pulling open Luca's door. She helps him out, putting his arm around her shoulders again for support. They hobble over to an open garage door, Luca breathing wetly the entire time. They duck under the door and are met by a bearded man, sitting on a rickety chair, smoking. He arises when they approach, apparently waiting for them, and leads Luca and Emilia further into a back room of the building. The room is all white, decorated only by a medical examination table, a trolley with a tray of instruments and vials. At the far end of the room is a wire framed bed. Luca's face goes even whiter if that's possible, but he doesn't say anything.

The man also stays silent, swapping out his brown overcoat for a long white one. He motions for Luca to sit on the examination table. Emilia ends up having to help him out of his own coat and up onto the table, even then he struggles to remain upright, clutching at his side through strained breaths. 

She feels his pain, and almost on cue the long-since-healed scar on her ribs gives a painful twinge in sympathy.

The doctor has him lie down and presses tenderly all over his ribs, watching for Luca's reaction. He makes a particularly pained gasp after a pass over one of his ribs, and the doctor makes a low, thoughtful noise, nodding to himself. Emilia watches from a few steps back, her arms crossed over her chest, chewing the inside of her cheek absently.

At this point, Luca is still bleeding all over the examination table, his eyes shut tight as he barely holds on to consciousness. The doctor reaches over to his tray table to grab something and Emilia takes her chance to reach out and wipe Luca's brow, wipe some of the blood out of his eyes. His eyes fly open, he looks confused to see her. It breaks her heart.

“Thought you’d abandoned me,” he croaks out.

Emilia keeps her hand on his head and whispers, “Had to let you think that. Had to make it all as real as possible.”

“Best way to not get caught up in a lie,” Luca coughs roughly.

She nods. 

The doctor administers some gas and then he's out completely. Emilia lets out a breath she didn’t realise she had been holding. He lifts Luca's shirt, checking the bruising around his middle that has already begun to show up. He's apparently happy with what he finds, and just wraps his ribcage tightly with a bandage.

The bearded man pulls out a toolkit of needles and other sharp implements, he looks up at her like he’s expecting her to leave. Emilia doesn’t move, and the doctor nods, carrying on. She can’t leave now for the same reason she couldn’t let Tommy have him. He was hers, and whatever that entailed she was here for it. Even if that involved facial sutures it seemed.

He moves up to Luca’s bloodied face, meticulously cleaning his wounds of glass and debris. Pulls, quite frankly, more glass than Emilia wants to think about, out of his face. After that, it's relatively smooth sailing. He gives the same treatment to Luca’s hands and proceeds to stitch him up where he needs it. 

Emilia takes this time to do her own once-over of the man on the examination table. There's a particularly nasty gash across his eyebrow that, even stitched up, looks to her like the bone underneath should be cracked. Same went for his left hand, which was already beginning to bruise up nicely. She can’t even be sure how that one happened.

The doctor gives him a couple of injections to finish up, then wheels Luca over to the bed and, with her help, pulls at the sheet under him. In one swift movement, transferring his bulky form onto the soft hospital bed.

“Let him sleep it off.” The two of them stand at the foot of Luca’s bed. “Don't think his ribs are broken,” the bearded man tells her, lighting up another cigarette, “Given the fact that he could stand at all, probably just severely bruised. That would also be the blood he was coughing up.” He rattles off the information to her so casually he could be talking about the weather. “He's definitely concussed, so wake him up every couple hours. And watch for any change in his mental state over the next fortnight.” She nods in response, thankful to have been given a job. She was no good at just standing idly by. 

“Feel free to call me again, if he deteriorates.”

She can’t be bothered explaining that they were going to be leaving the country as soon as possible, and that therefore wasn’t really an option, so she just nods, biting at the nail of her thumb.

“You know how to handle the stitches?" He asks.

Emilia hums an affirmative.

"So, just minimal movement and lots of rest then. He can take these for any pain,” he reaches into his coat, producing a bottle of pills, handing it to her. “Overall, he's going to be okay,” he half smiles at her.

Emilia's not so positive, but she nods again anyway, and thanks the man as he leaves.

She puts Luca's coat on over her own and pulls the chair in from the other room, putting her feet up on the bed next to him, crossing them at the ankles. She tucks his coat around herself tightly, it’s not particularly cold in the building, but the scent of him that wafts up from it calms her. Despite the fact that it’s tinged with a lingering smell of gin and blood. She watches him breathe for a while, watching his chest slowly rise and fall. Emilia slowly feels herself slipping into unconscious, her head nodding more and more, until finally, she's out too.

Luca awakes what feels like days later, his head throbbing, his mouth dry as a bone. He’s vaguely aware he’s in a bed. Someone’s taken off his shirt. His hand reaches out and hits something on the bed. He looks down, it’s a boot, he trails his gaze up to its owner.

And he realises, it can't be more than a few hours later because there she is; snoring lightly next to his bed, wearing his blood-stained coat. Still by his side. Couldn’t even lose everything properly.

And what a hell of a way to go that would have been, he muses.

His immediate reaction was to go back. Get the Shelbys now, while they were unsuspecting. Never mind he could barely move.

Strangely, his father’s voice rings in his ears. ‘Never let them know what you’re thinking,’ the old man had said once. No surprise there. Luca was hasty, ploughed headlong into things without negotiating. Laid his intentions out for all to see, made the rest of it up as he went along, always had. 

But not her, she was particular, and definitely had a plan. She had taken him away, to what end? Think about what went wrong, plan his next move? Luca didn’t want to think about any of it. Didn’t really want to think at all. Which was probably the reason he was here, in this position now. 

He takes a particularly deep breath, and it all comes rushing back. The pain in his side feels like someone’s directly kicking his lungs, and it makes him cough, which, worst of all, wakes her up.

Emilia sits bolt upright and has the nerve to look upset with herself that she even fell asleep. Luca tries to talk, to tell her what— he doesn’t know, it doesn’t matter either way, because all he can seem to do at the moment is cough. The metal tang of blood still lingering in his mouth, around the back of his teeth.

She brings him some water, watching him gulp it down. “Can you sit up?” She asks, tentatively.

Luca tries it, pushing off one elbow, finally getting there. His ribs not proving as troublesome at moving as he thought. Only when he has to breathe, he thinks, disgruntled. 

“Yeah,” he exhales roughly, propping himself up with an arm, grimacing.

“Good,” she replies, face apologetic, “‘Cause we have to go.”

Oh, they weren’t thinking, they were running.

* * *

They had dozed through the better part of the day and it was late now. They were going to have to drive through the night. Catch the morning ferry.

Emilia rifles through her documents, double-checking again, making sure they have the right ones. She throws some clean clothes from the case in the boot of the car at Luca and tells him to change, does the same herself.

The phone rings while she’s helping him pull on a clean coat, Luca looking like he wants to argue the entire time but can’t.

She hadn’t even noticed the set on the far wall. She thinks it over. Best case scenario: wrong number, worst case: she doesn’t even want to think about. She picks up without saying anything. 

“Turner, what are you doing?” The voice on the other end crackles.

Oh, just work.

She clears her throat. “Who is this?” She asks, playfully.

“We’ve been trying to get in contact with you for days.”

They had an unnatural way of knowing when one of their agents was about to go rogue, and she was kind of glad to see it also applied to her.

“I know,” she replies calm, “I’ve been avoiding you.”

“You better have something good, something we can use.”

They had found out where they were. She has to give them something. Get them off her back for now at the very least. So, she tells them the truth, or a version of it. The Italian’s are all dead or leaving, the Blinders are now working with the Americans, and she was heading over there herself, to liaise. So long as nothing hindered her passage out of the country. 

“I’ll update you when I’m done, when I have all the facts.”

This seems to placate them. And perhaps most surprisingly, gets her a well done at the end. 

She hangs up. “Fuck you,” she says to the wall. Like she did any of it for them.

Luca is watching her, swollen face frowning.

They drive further south, in relative silence. Emilia feels like she won’t be able to breathe properly until they are out of the country, and the closer they get to London, to more people, to more threats, the worse it gets. Meanwhile, Luca is literally struggling for breath behind her. He tries to sleep, but the movement of the car, and outside rushing by make him nauseous. 

Eventually the sounds of his distress become too much for her to ignore, “Luca please, I’d love it if we just made it through the night.” 

She hears him inhale long and slow. “Stop the car,” he replies, thickly.

Her hands grip the steering wheel tightly, but she does, pulling off next to a field. They’re still too far out of the city, so the only lights around for miles are the headlights.

He gets out and leans heavily against the outside of the car, just breathing. Emilia debates shutting off the engine and getting out to join him, then a moment later he opens the door and throws himself into the passenger seat next to her. 

He sits up front with her, occasionally wheezing, but mostly silent.

They hop a ferry over to the continent. Luca finally nodding off, sleeping against her shoulder the entire way. When he wakes and realises, he grumbles under his breath. Emilia thinks his mottled face would blush if it could. And she feels the knot in her stomach loosen a little. 

Luca keeps the brim of his hat low, avoiding eye contact, but sees her slip the boarding officer £5 to ignore his bruises. 

The Italian looks over at her, still quietly intrigued by her willingness to transgress, especially for his sake. 

His half-interested reaction was the most emotion she had gotten out of him since they had left the doctor’s. He seemed content to be dragged along in this part of the plan by her. Content maybe wasn’t the right word, she thinks sourly, he was compliant, dejected. Going through the motions. It worried her if she was being honest, like most things these days. She was going to give him as long as he needed to work through it, but she wasn’t about to let him give up now.

After the ferry, they board a train in Calais. In a moment of clarity, Luca looks around and mumbles into her ear, “We finally running off to Russia?” It’s croaky and doesn't quite land as lighthearted as she's sure he intended, but it's the first time he has sounded anything like himself in days. 

It startles a laugh out of Emilia, and she replies coy, “Hm, not quite. Somewhere a bit warmer.” He seems satisfied by that.

And, when they have to change trains in Paris for the longer trek of their journey, Luca notices the name of their destination on the timetable board hung in the station. She’s waiting for some reaction, but he simply looks over at her and nods, understanding.

This train is a sleeper, meaning they get their own compartment. It has a double bed at one end, another smaller one adjacent, that she supposes is more to be used as a lounge owing to the small table next to it. On the other side of the table is a built-in drink cabinet, situated under a large window. Emilia had paid an exorbitant amount for the privacy but couldn’t care less what it looked like right now. Would be lying if she said she wasn’t glad to just have somewhere to crash. Somewhere to stop and relax, after their past couple of days of near constant movement. Luca must feel the same because as soon they get settled in, he decides to lie down, his head hits the pillow and he’s out like a light.

She stays up for now, to make sure he doesn’t die in his sleep. Tries to ignore the burrowing feeling that she hasn’t properly slept in about a hundred years. 

She had said it would be warmer, but it was cold in Paris, and the further south and into Switzerland they went, the more the terrain outside became blustery and snowy. She begins to feel like it’s a metaphor for her life inside the train as well. Luca was becoming more and more detached from her the healthier he got. They hardly spoke, just coexisting together for the time being. She wasn’t ready to push him yet.

She returns from the restaurant car one afternoon, food in hand, expecting to find Luca in their compartment, but it’s empty. She puts down the meal she had saved for him and goes off in search.

She finds him at the very back of the train. The last carriage has a small outdoor platform, a railing from which to wave out the back of the train. The sound of the train on the tracks is loud, but the light snow falling around them seems to deafen the loudest of the noise.

He looks over, as she opens the door, but says nothing, turning his head back to the retreating tracks. Emilia keeps her distance, she leans against the opposite railing, crosses her arms and watches him. He stands tall and straight, his bruised jaw clenched. A dark, unwavering figure in the rapidly whirring by landscape. 

She feels a tension in his form, an anger she hoped had recently faded out of him. Waits for him to speak first.

“You should have let them shoot me.” 

She’d thought it might be something like that.

She presses her lips together and glares across the carriage at him. It was more than he’d said to her in days. Emilia decides to give him a chance to redeem himself and waits again before speaking.

Luca rubs a hand over his eyes, it’s his injured one and she notices it trembles slightly as he does. “What the fuck is going to happen when I get back? I can't avoid it forever.” He flexes his hand, stretching the fingers out before crossing his arms. “I should go— should’ve gone straight back to New York.”

She admires his dedication to duty, but Jesus, was he really trying this with her? Emilia scoffs, digs around in her coat, and busies herself lighting a cigarette. 

“Who do you think put them ‘in touch’ with the other families?” She asks, finally, into the silence simmering between them, breaching the gap. His head does a jerked sort of half-turn towards her.

“C’mon, Luca,” she mumbles around the filter in her mouth. “There's no way Tommy Shelby attained that sort of covert info without my help.” She jabs her cigarette out at the scenery for emphasis. “He didn’t tell me what they were doing, but it didn’t take a lot of figuring out.”

Luca frowns deeply. “He still trusted you after?” He asks, voice strained.

After them being together, she guesses.

“I never gave him any reason not to really, unlike I did with you,” she shrugs, motioning between the two of them, “Besides, you’d be surprised what he’s willing to ignore.” Emilia smiles, wryly. No one understands sleeping with the enemy more than Tommy, she muses, they were just about the only relationships he had anymore.

“So, my men?”

The question pulls at her heart, for all it was iced up at the moment. She can only imagine the betrayal he would have felt; seeing those men he trusted, shrug off their allegiance to him so nonchalantly. She almost felt bad for letting it happen, but it was better this way. At least he knew they could be bought now.

“They were prepared to let you die, yeah. You can deal with that how you like when we do get back, I guess. I only told Tony the truth.” 

“And Matteo?” He asks, his voice careful and quiet.

She takes a long drag, feels the recoil in her palm like muscle memory. She focuses on Luca’s profile intently, “Sold you out quicker than I liked.”

He nods barely, seemingly accepting that answer.

“As for New York,” Emilia ploughs on, “I didn’t think it would be the safest place, should Tommy figure out the double bluff. They sent Michael over to make sure it was all legit. And, it is, technically. Except that he works for us now.” Luca’s eyes flicker over to her briefly, in panic or she can’t tell what. “Shelby Company Limited will send over their gin for import, and it will be distributed by a family that does not exist. A shell corporation, owned by the same family that you work with,” she rattles off the details, evidently unconcerned by the minutia, now that she had it all in action. “Same family that Sabini’s going to sell Solomons’ rum to. Of which you will also get a cut, for, you know, running Alfie out of town.”

She ashes her quickly dwindling cigarette, “They get paid, Tommy gets to sell his fucking gin, we get to live.”

And, that’s that.

Luca sighs, uncrossing his arms, “You’re always two steps ahead, huh?” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, though. He leans forward, hands resting on the railing, “You know, one day I’m gonna get sick of you always being smarter than me.”

Emilia grins widely, “No, you won’t.”

Luca shakes his head a little. “No, I won’t,” he agrees, around a small smile. He’s smiling, but still won’t fully look at her, still can’t shake it.

She stubs out her cigarette. “It’s freezing out here, I’m heading in,” she says, moving back towards the door.

Luca murmurs an affirmative, and doesn’t even turn to watch her leave, just hears the carriage door snap closed quietly.

She’s not in their compartment when he returns. The light in the carriage is still too much for him, so he shuts them off. He lays down in the dark, only meaning to rest his eyes.

He awakes sometime in the early hours of the morning, jolted slightly by the train’s movement.

He sits up, rubbing his eyes. His head feels clearer, which is a positive, he supposes. Finally felt like he was getting some rest. The weight of the fallout from his failure, lifted off his mind after Emilia’s revelation. 

Mia. He reaches a hand out. Where was she?

Luca gets up to look out their cabin window, it’s still dark out but the weather is clearing up. A small noise to his left catches his attention, and he looks down and finally sees her. Emilia is asleep on the bed on the other side of the cabin, her pale skin shining in the moonlight streaming in. She’s definitely asleep, but he notices she’s curled in on herself, facing the wall like she’s cold. Had apparently not wanted to wake him when she returned, and had made do with the mediocre, leftover sheet, and tiny bed. Luca’s chest swells a little, overcome with a myriad of emotions.

First of all, Jesus Christ, why was he such an asshole? Had he always been this way or was it a recent development? This brave, beautiful woman had risked everything for him, and had gotten away with it, because she was so damned smart. He can still feel the palpable sense of relief.

And, here he was, freezing her out, literally, over his own bruised ego. He was too fucking old to be coming to such realisations.

He moves over towards her sleeping form, and something catches his eye on the table there. It’s a small meal from the dining carriage, she must have saved it for him.

Luca sighs. Yeah, definitely too fucking old to be realising the right person would make him want to do better, to be better for her, for himself. Become a better man. Us, she had said earlier outside, ‘He works for _us _now.’ It had thrown him then, but he finds he does not mind the implication there. In fact, it makes his heart beat a little faster to think about.

He picks up the warm top blanket off the bed he was just sleeping in and slowly, without waking her, slides into the cold bed behind her. He pulls the blanket over them both, carefully, and rests his arm around her middle. He breathes in the scent of her hair, and she sighs lightly in her sleep resting back against him. He lets himself drift back off to sleep.

And, he still cannot believe his luck, prays thanks to God, and then to every other deity he can think of.

When Emilia wakes it’s to sunlight gently streaming in their cabin, the ever-present noises of the train on the rails, and a warm, deliberate presence pressed along the length of her back. She inhales his singular, manly scent and, keeping her eyes closed, turns in his arms. Opening them only once they are face-to-face. 

They had only actually fallen asleep together a handful of times, and most of those times had featured other certain activities beforehand, so this was a rare occasion. She takes advantage of it, just taking in his features for a moment. The cut along the right side of his face, the one along his jaw, and all the smaller ones peppered between were healing up nicely, just fine red lines by now. The one cutting through his brow, that had needed stitches, and the one across his nose would need a little longer, but he was hardly the gnarled mess she knew he thought of himself as now. She runs a finger along the edge of the bruise still peppering his cheekbone.

Luca’s eyes flutter open, long dark lashes hiding green-flecked eyes. 

He blinks a couple of times, taking her in. “I’m sorry I’m such an asshole,” he rasps out, voice still husky from sleep. 

She can’t help but smile, it’s such a Luca thing to say first thing off the bat.

“I love you,” she breathes back.

And, if you had asked her what she was going to say when she opened her mouth that morning, she never could have predicted it. Her sleep-fuzzy brain deciding for her, but once it’s out she finds she doesn’t regret it. It washes over her; a calming thought. It feels right.

Luca’s instantly awake. His brow immediately furrowing, as he breathes deep. He opens and closes his mouth, unsure of how to respond. She stares back at him, a quiet confidence upon her face. 

He understood, had felt the urge to say it himself, had _wanted _to. Turns out, she was braver than he. “Is that enough?” Luca asks eventually, his voice a low whisper, his eyes falling, unsure. 

Emilia sighs, she knows what he means, “Maybe it isn’t.” She brings her hand back up to the side of his face, “Maybe it is, it doesn’t matter.” His eyes fall shut briefly under her touch. “I missed you, and I need you.” 

Luca’s face falls forward. He rests his forehead on the place where her neck meets her shoulder. She lets her hand run through his hair. After a minute, she feels him exhale lightly, chuckling. 

He thinks of every last second of the past week, of her gun held high in that freezing factory, how she saved him from his own damn mistakes, the sheer amount of planning this exit must have taken, all the way down to the food she made sure she saved for him. None of it asked for— and none of it deserved in his mind, that’s for sure.

“You don’t need me,” he says into her skin there, “I need you.” And, if that’s all she was going to get from him, it would be enough. It would be more than enough. 

Luca lifts his head to look at her again. There’s still a line of concern between his brows, but his eyes are clear and filled with warmth.

She had always made him feel stronger in turn. 

“Ti amo. Cosi tanto.” _I love you. __So much._

It hits her in a place she wasn’t expecting it to, the language enhancing the words she hadn’t been prepared for. She keeps her grip in his hair, scratching around the shorter length at the nape, and nudges their noses together. They stay like that for a second, still but for the train rocking around them.

Luca is the first to bridge the gap, tilting his chin up and kissing her for the first time in weeks. He doesn’t care that his face still hurts, his stitches pull with every movement against her, just doesn’t care about any of it. About anything other than her.

The night before the boxing match felt like so long ago, she almost has to readjust to the feel of him, almost feels like a different person. And, they might as well be. On the run, wearing the same pairs of clothes on repeat, his uncharacteristic stubble scraping against her face. But, under all that, something, something warm and welcoming, and to say his kiss feels like coming home would be an understatement.

He kisses her until whatever shock she felt a moment ago was gone, and then some more, until all she can feel is him. 

She pulls back partly, a wry look in her eyes, “Ti amo anch'io.” 

He can barely contain his grin as it pulls at the corners of his mouth, makes his face twinge even more. He leans his forehead against hers, his eyes shut tight for the moment. 

“I haven’t even taken you on a first date yet,” he laments, still smiling.

She kisses him to halt that train of thought right there, she didn’t care about that stuff. Had never been one to do things the right way around and didn’t particularly want to start now.

He pulls back again though, concern pulling his brows together.

“I want to take you out,” he says earnestly, “Show you a good time.” He runs a hand through her hair, over the back of her head, pulling it to his and placing a quick peck on her lips. “Show you off,” he mumbles into her lips, and slides his hand down, gripping her hip with his injured hand.

She bites his lower lip, and opens her mouth to him, dragging him into a deeper kiss than before. Luca feels the heat building between them and shoves a thigh between her legs on instinct. She pushes herself down against it, sighing into his mouth, and pulling him closer to her. The movement causes his ribs to give a painful pang. Lying on his side half the night hasn't helped, and the rush of pain brings him jarringly back down to reality.

He's suddenly not sure what to do, if he could even give her what he wants to right now. His face is stinging more and more, and his hand with the stitches throbs.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak, Luca muses. It's almost funny.

A bell rings out from the other end of the train, they were nearing their destination. Emilia pulls away swiftly, getting up and bringing an abrupt end to Luca's internal struggle. She shifts over him, careful not to press on his ribs.

“C’mon,” she starts to gather up their things.

Luca groans softly at the loss, letting his head fall back on the pillow, watches her meander about the compartment.

She looks over at his still prone form.

“The sooner we can get off this train, the sooner we can get back to —" she wags a finger over him and the bed, “— whatever that was.” 

Luca’s mouth twitches, and he nods, following her up.

* * *

The train gets them as close as it can. They get off and head to the nearest garage, they hire a car, and the man pulls it round for them.

She opens the passenger door, “You got to take it from here, Capo.” He climbs into the driver’s seat and smiles over at her. 

As they pull out of the city, Luca reaches over and takes her hand, holding it in his. They drive in relative silence for the couple of hours it takes to reach his family’s home. Luca only speaking up to point out a local landmark every now and then.

He turns down a long driveway, and at the end they pull up at a not-indiscrete villa. It’s all old stonework, surrounded by lush greenery, vines climbing the walls, and what appears to be an orchard peeking around the side.

There’s an old man, standing by the entryway, he must have seen them driving down. Luca gets out of the car, greeting the man with a hug, and a cheek kiss. He seems happy to see them, though Emilia catches him eyeing Luca’s face warily, and after a few murmured words he ushers them both inside quickly.

Inside, they walk down a wide hallway, through to a large kitchen. It’s well loved, there are pots and pans hanging all over, and a rich smell of herbs. An elderly woman rounds the corner, from what must be the garden and immediately stops in her tracks. Her face drops in horror, and she rushes towards them, yelling profusely in Italian.

Luca’s hands go up instantly in surrender. Emilia can’t quite pick up on everything she’s saying, but from the look on the woman’s face and her gestures, she can guess it’s at least a little bit about the state of Luca’s face. It was healing well; Emilia can’t imagine what she would do if this woman saw what he looked like a week ago.

Emilia turns to look back at the man who had greeted them, to see if this behaviour was normal. He shrugs half-hearted, and smiles wistfully like he feels a bit sorry for Luca. 

“Lo so, Nonna, lo so,” Luca repeats to the woman. Gently pushing her hands away from physically grabbing at his injured face. He seems genuinely chastened, in the way that only family can do to you, but he’s beginning to smile down at the older lady.

Another woman enters the room, apparently drawn by the commotion. She takes in the scene in front of her for a second before jumping in with her own barrage. Emilia begins to feel a bit like an unwanted spectator at this point, she wonders if she should find a way to slip out of the kitchen unnoticed. Luca’s voice raises a little now that he has to defend himself in double. He calls this one Zia, though she seems too old, to Emilia, to be his actual Aunt. Maybe a great-Aunt.

Finally, Luca’s grandmother says something that causes everyone to come to a halt. 

Luca’s hands drop. “Mi dispiace,” is all he says. _I’m sorry_. The man standing in the door comes into the room and places a hand on his back, a gesture of solidarity.

“Dov'è tua madre?” The man asks. 

Luca goes to reply but finds he can’t. His mind whirls as he realises, he has no idea where his mother is. Did she stay in Birmingham? He had sent her in to the fucking lion’s den to bargain for him, did she even get out? Why hadn’t he thought about this before now? Jesus Christ, his mind really was falling apart.

“She’s in New York,” Emilia speaks up.

All heads in the room turn to her.

She’s standing a few feet away. Her hands are resting on the edge of the countertop, behind her, as she leans against it. She’s watching them all cautiously, but she looks at Luca like this is obvious, like he should know this. Vaguely, very vaguely, he can recall her mentioning something about it. Maybe on the train? Maybe before that.

“Yes,” he adds on confidently, turning back to face his Nonna, “She’s safe in New York.” He doesn’t even bother with the language, he’s so relieved to have an actual answer.

Both women are still staring at her. Her accent apparently causing more suspicion than her answer. Better save her before they lunge, Luca thinks.

“Nonna, Zia, questa è Emilia.” She smiles, demurely, and for a second he thinks she might almost give a little curtsey.

His grandmother turns to him suspiciously, “Lei parla italiano?”_ She speaks Italian?_

“Sii gentile,” Luca smiles, putting a comforting hand on his grandmother’s back. _Be nice_.

Emilia hears him explain to them how she saved his life, and they visibly relax. The two women invite her further into the house, showing her around. Still standoffish, but more amicable than before, and clearly trusting enough of Luca’s judgement. She tries not to let her obvious distraction so Luca can talk to, what she has assumed is, his great-uncle unperturbed, bother her. This was just what these women were used to: occupy the guests so the men can talk. 

They’re also clearly proud of the, quite frankly, truly impressive house they keep. Emilia has trouble finding the words in Italian for the true grandeur of the garden, as they wander outside, it was so far removed from her dingy, cold courtyard back in Birmingham. There’s a long table set up under the shade of a large lemon tree, which sprawls over into the orchard she had peeked from the front entrance. Further down the garden is a sparkling pond, glinting in the long afternoon sun, sunbeds laid out next to it. The two women take her slightly down the hill at the bottom of the garden and around a small bit of shrubbery to where a stone bench sits, rather unobtrusively. Emilia is suddenly struck by a magnificent view. From this point of the property you could see nearly the entire town, sprawling gradually down the hillside, coming to a glittering end where it meets the sea in a light, brown sand beach. The Mediterranean Sea stretching out across the landscape as far as the eye could see.

By the time they get back inside, Emilia has exhausted her knowledge of Italian superlatives, and is just nodding in response. When they reach the kitchen, she finds Luca sitting with the other man. He looks about as tired as she feels, but still smiles warmly up at her when they enter the room and puts an arm out open for her. She sits down at the table next to him, they’ve been drinking, she notes the glasses and bottle of mysterious liqueur on the table. She takes his glass, claiming it as her own by taking a large sip. It burns a little at first and she pulls a face, but it warms pleasantly the rest of the way down, so she takes another sip. Luca just rests his arm around her shoulders, smiles and carries on his conversation. 

The family eats there at the small kitchen table, and despite the lack of food he’s had over the last few days, Luca insists he’s not hungry. Which, the sentence alone, looks like it might give his poor grandmother heart failure, but he insists. In compromise, Emilia is sure her plate gets stacked sky high with delicious smelling food. It’s too bad she doesn’t have the nerve to tell Nonna she wasn’t particularly hungry either. She quietly damns the polite Englishwoman in her and tries to put away as much of it as she can. She gratefully catches Luca picking at her plate in the middle of conversation too, and from her sidelong glance, is sure that was Nonna’s plan all along.

Emilia really just wanted to sleep, would kill for a soft, warm bed, is nodding off just thinking about it. Though that could be a mixture of the food, and drink, and much too pleasantly warm room. Either way, it’s this that finally gets them both excused from dinner. His grandmother decrying, they have both had a long day, and there is to be no snoring at her table. 

They say their good-nights, and Luca leads her off to their room on the second floor.

Sal, who it turns out _is _in fact Luca’s rather spry great-uncle, brings up their case of clothes. It wasn’t much, all she had time to grab before the showdown in the factory. He talks to his nephew in the doorway for a minute afterwards, Luca’s gaze never wanders from watching her wander about the room.

She takes in the spacious bedroom. Hardwood floors, it's own separate bathroom, and large glass doors leading to a private balcony. There was even a small table and chairs by the window, but Emilia zeroes in on the large four-poster bed. She’s never seen a more comfortable looking bed, and she gets to sleep in it. After not really doing any of it in the last few days, she could just about cry looking at it.

Sal bids them goodnight and Luca shuts the door behind him.

“Fucking finally,” she hears him murmur, and before she can even figure out what’s going on Luca has crossed the room and hoisted her body against his, pressing her into a wall, pressing his mouth to hers.

And he’s not fully himself yet, knows he’s not, but seeing her in this space had really done something for him. A space he had grown up in, had always known, and she looks so at home here. So _in_ place.

He taps his tongue along her teeth, before deepening the kiss. Emilia makes a small noise against him, into his mouth. He pulls back to change his angle and feels her tense in his arms.

“Whoa, what —” she stutters in a gasp. She pulls away from him, and out of his grasp.

Luca lets her go, watches her cross the room in a daze.

Emilia sits on the edge of the bed, exhaling heavily. She’s still so tired, but her body is thrumming from his slightest touch. “Where did that come from?” She asks with a tilt of her head.

A horrible niggling thought pulls in the back of his head: she didn’t want him after this, how could she? She had seen him beaten and humiliated— had pulled away as fast as possible on the train.

He runs a hand over his jaw, “I've been alone with you for days now, and haven't been _able_ to act on it.” Luca lets out a breathy, almost-sheepish laugh, “Gimme a break.”

And it’s enough to give her pause, ‘sheepish’ not usually being a word she would associate with him. Emilia can still feel where his hands were just pressing into her hips. Had missed it more than she realised. And quietly, she supposes it's the best sign that he's feeling enough like himself again, was slowly getting there. 

Emilia bites the inside of her lip, looks up at him on the other side of the room. “You're sure you feel well enough?”

“Doll, I feel great.” Maybe a little tipsy from dinner, he thinks belatedly.

“Come here,” she says, barely above a whisper.

And Luca, not usually one for taking orders, does. He obeys and wanders over to stand in front of her, cautiously optimistic. Ready to be pulled down onto the bed with her, or for her to rise up and meet him, whatever her plan is. What he gets instead, is Emilia staying seated, her hands reaching for his fly, deftly unbuttoning it. Confidently watching his face rather than the task in front of her. She does it in careful, deliberate movements, seemingly drawing the action out. So that when she gets it fully undone and her hand presses inside, her touch there, through the thin material, is enough to make his head spin again.

"Mia —" he gasps out, putting a steadying hand on her shoulder.

A thrill runs through him at the sheer sight of her before him, lips parted, and when she puts her mouth on him, that first touch is a revelation. The innate warmth and wet, drawing a deep shudder from him.

His reaction only seems to bolster her.

And, yeah okay, he was still going to have to revise a little internally because you don’t say 'I love you', then suck someone’s dick like this, if you don’t want them.

She pulls off and runs her lips up and down the length of him. Kissing, and sucking her way down to the base before moving back up to the head and sucking hard on just the tip.

And God, this was not a thing nice girls were this good at, but then she had never pretended to be otherwise with him. Nice girls didn’t have tattoos, or carry knives, didn’t shoot men in the head, or learn Russian because they presumably had to under duress, didn’t denounce their families, their country, to take up with the mafia, didn’t save men like him.

He kind of wished he had known this from the start, had been doing this from the start. Lets his eyes nearly fall shut, gets a little lost in it.

He’s got his hands in her hair, but isn’t forceful about it, isn’t even holding on, is more just threading his hands through the ends. Brushing through it tenderly, and exhaling little moans under his breath, in a way that makes her shiver all over.

She has to stop, “You’re sure your elderly relatives aren’t going to hear this?” 

“What —” 

He must have been making a noise, he couldn’t quite tell. She was still holding him, pumping her fist up and down slowly, whilst looking up at him. It was making it a little hard to think.

“No, their rooms are at the very back of the house, couldn’t be further away." He huffs out a breathy laugh, “Besides, they’re old, amore. They couldn’t hear us even if they were next door.”

“Good,” she says, small smirk pulling up the corner of her mouth, “Because those little noises you’re making are way too much for me.”

She lets him go and shuffles up the bed, lying down, arching her back slightly.

“Come here,” she repeats.

And, again, he can do nothing but obey.

And in the end, she sleeps like the dead.

* * *

She wakes up and he's sitting at the small table in their room, sipping his coffee, staring out at the view.

The sun’s shining through the window, and she can feel a soft breeze rustling in through the orchard outside. It’s so beautiful it's nearly disgusting. 

“Ugh, why would you ever want to live in dirty, old New York when you could be here?” She asks, stretching languidly on the bed. It’s mostly hypothetical, but a little part of her does want to stay forever. They had spent most of the past two days just recuperating from their trip, not really leaving the house. She was ready to look around today, go exploring.

She gets up, coming around behind him to rest her arms over his shoulders. He gently holds both her hands in one of his, and brings them up to his mouth, giving them a small good morning kiss.

“I like it in the city,” he says, softly, “The people, the noise, it's alive there.” The ‘_I _feel alive there,’ heavily implied, but neither of them mentions it.

“Besides,” he chuckles, a little self-deprecating, “If I came back and lived here forever, I'd really be a f— ” he hesitates, and then stops altogether. He exhales, letting his hand not holding hers, hit the table.

“What is it?” She feels his shoulders drop.

Luca stays quiet for a moment.

“Keep thinking about something Solomons said to me,” he says eventually, keeping his voice low. Emilia’s fingers tighten around his own briefly. “Something like, if I couldn't finish off Tommy Shelby, I was a failure. I know he was trying to rile me up but—” his voice becomes clipped at the end, “Guess he was right.”

She gently pulls out of his grasp and moves around so she can see him fully. He's half expecting a comforting face, maybe a joke to change the subject. But she looks upset, almost mad. _Merda_, if she didn't think he was a failure too, she definitely thought he was an idiot. He turns his head to the side, back to the view, avoiding her gaze.

She chews the inside of her lip, “I wasn’t going to tell you this until I was sure, until I got confirmation. But, one of the last bits of info I got was Tommy’s plans after you.” Luca’s heart rate picks up a little. His eyes flicker back to her for a second, but he keeps his head turned.

“After he killed you,” she carries on, like that’s nothing. “He was heading out to find Alfie. Holed up in Margate, or God-knows-where. So,” she pauses, pointedly, “In all likelihood, by now, Alfie Solomons is lying in a ditch somewhere with a bullet in his head, just for fucking _talking_ to you. And we’re here. We get to live.” 

She shrugs, because it bears repeating. “You have to decide whether that's enough.” She steals a cup of coffee off the table, “I'm going down to breakfast.” She picks up her robe off the floor and strolls out of the room.

He follows her down shortly after. Her laugh reaching him before she does.

She’s in the kitchen with his grandmother. Emilia’s trying to explain something, and Nonna is correcting. Chastising and encouraging her in only that way that Italian grandmothers could do.

Nonna was becoming more and more friendly to her every day, says she finds Emilia’s broken Italian charming, likes that she is even trying. The others were coming around to her too, he knew they would. 

He starts to think, maybe it could be enough.

“You going out somewhere today?” He asks her later back in their room, as she’s getting dressed.

“Mm,” she answers muffled around a hairpin in between her teeth. She was pulling her hair back to pin it at the base of her skull, it was long enough now to do so.

She had only packed the bare bones of what they would need, and as a result she had a nearly empty suitcase. Luca had things he could wear here, but she needed clothes first and foremost, especially for this weather.

He decides to join her, visit the handful of local shops together. Luca, a man of fashion himself, is definitely entertained. Enjoys watching her, likes everything she pulls out, even picks a few items himself, but seems preoccupied still. That is, until Emilia tries to pay, and he nearly has a conniption.

Later that night, she takes his sutures out. They drag one of the chairs from the table inside out onto the balcony and in the dying light of the long summer day she gently works them out. She’s already changed into her shift, and he’s stripped down to just a thin undershirt, and trousers. She quickly does the couple in his hand first, then moves onto his face. She stands between his open legs, cutting and plucking at the doctor’s neat stitches delicately, while a warm breeze blows around them.

He's mostly a good patient, tilts his head back to allow her to work, barely even flinching, which she thinks might just be for her benefit. The skin under the wounds had sewn together nicely. The scarring should be fairly innocuous but would still definitely add to his dangerous public persona, she thinks. And maybe in turn, to her own private interest. After all, he already had the faintest of scars that ran down his cheek, that she had found herself distracted by many times in the past. 

He brings a hand up to her hip, to get her attention, pulling her out of this reprieve. 

“I’m sorry for before,” he sighs, his fingers playing with the soft, lightweight material there, “For this morning.”

She’s just about done, pulls the last piece out of his brow, and runs her thumb over the closed cut there. “God, I know I’m going to regret this,” she mumbles, mostly to herself, then looks directly down at him, “But please stop apologising to me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Luca frowns like he begs to differ.

She stays in his space, putting her hand over his on her hip. “I told you before, I don’t want to fix you,” she says, referring back to what she said to him in the hotel room, the night before the fight. 

He bobs his head to the side, eyeing the small scissors she had just been wielding.

“Except maybe physically,” she replies, tongue in cheek.

“You know, you shouldn’t look this gift horse in the mouth,” he says, his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile too. “You’re about the only person I’ve ever been known to say it to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says sarcastically, before becoming serious again. “Look, I know you’re just feeling sorry for yourself.” Luca frowns, but she keeps going, “You're _allowed _to— to have these moments of doubt, like this morning.”

He nods slowly, seemingly accepting, if a little bit distant. He was still healing, and from more than just the physical wounds, she knew. Even if he didn't see it like that.

He rushes inside to shave immediately now that she’s done, his stubble had been bugging him for days. She watches him from the doorway, working quickly at the basin, dragging the razor over his new scars. Emilia thinks, she might like to do it for him one day, can already see it.

Luca grumbles to her in the mirror, “I guess I'm just not used to it.” His mind still on their earlier conversation.

She sighs lightly. Of course, he’s not used to self-doubt. Ever the confident man. 

“That’s why we’re here, we’ve got _time_.”

* * *

She was right. Time, they had. And whilst it was a luxury neither had much experience with, the next couple of days passed in a blur, and slowly Luca found himself getting used to it. To the relaxed nature of the country, to the heat, to the warmth of another at his side.

One afternoon Luca’s grandmother invites some old friends around. She says it’s because she made too much food, but Emilia’s sure it’s to show off Luca, to reintroduce him to everyone. She can’t blame her.

They set up on the long table outside, under the lemon tree, music drifting out from the record player in the kitchen. They're a raucous bunch, quick with a laugh, and quick to refill her glass. Nothing is off the books for discussion; they talk politics, which quickly devolves into a rallying cry against the fascists, apparently making life very hard for some families in this part of the country. But just as quickly switch back to local gossip, and frivolous topics. Emilia finds the language barrier slightly troubling but manages to keep up. She does however find it particularly amusing that they chastise Luca for his Italian too, saying it sounds too American. His indignant face is picture she never wants to forget.

Emilia finds herself laughing more than she had ever expected, and it might be her imagination but the more wine she has, the better her Italian gets. She’s sure of it.

Luca’s talking with Sal on his left, when he picks up on the end of the women’s conversation, happening to the other side of him.

“We don’t have secrets anymore.” He hears Emilia tell his Aunt at the other end of the table. She’s grinning into her wine glass, and nearly chokes on the liquid when the rest of the women all throw their hands up, laughing loudly, incredulous at her statement. They don’t believe her.

Emilia catches Luca’s eye out the corner of hers and gives him a quick wink.

The older women go on, good-naturedly needling and ribbing her. 

“Secrets between a man and woman are good, some things they don’t need to know.” 

“Some things they don’t _want _to know.”

Emilia carries on chuckling, nodding like they’re right.

“Women need secrets,” his Nonna intones mock-seriously. 

“Well, maybe I have_ some_ womanly secrets,” Emilia makes a show of thinking. “Might let my natural hair colour grow out,” she flicks a dark curl of hair over her shoulder.

The women all laugh.

Luca laughs for a second, then stops, “Wait, what?”

Emilia laughs harder.

They head down to the beach, the next day. It’s insufferably hot and humid, but Luca remains on the sand, sunbathing and dozing shirtless. They’re at a smaller, closed off inlet around the corner from the main strip of beach, and there’s hardly anyone about. Emilia strips down to her suit, plunging into the nearly crystal-clear water. She swims about idly, floating and letting all thoughts drift from her mind.

When she joins him back on the sand, she decides he looks entirely too dry and lays directly atop him. She lands with nothing more than a small 'Oof', from him, almost like he expected something like this. 

She lays her head on his chest, her breasts pressing into his torso comfortably, as water from her hair and body drips down onto him.

He runs a hand over her head, gently twirling a wet strand of hair around his fingertips. Not saying anything, but she can practically hear his thoughts.

“You really going to grow it out?” Luca asks eventually. He’s still preoccupied by her most recent revelation.

She huffs a small laugh, “Makes me look more like a Shelby like this, which I guess, was the point.”

“What colour is it?” He asks, voice croaky.

She rests her chin on his chest and smiles down at him. “You’ll just have to wait and find out, won't you?” She teases, pressing a kiss into his sternum.

Italy has been good for Luca, for both of them.

Both getting tan under the unrelenting sun. Luca especially, his southern Italian roots, showcased magnificently in the golden olive tone of his skin. Set off even further by the lightness of his eyes, and the easy smile that followed him so often these days. And, his hair, in its current pomade-less state and unruly length, curls in front of his face in a way that has no right being as endearing as it is.

No trace of the hard ass he was in front of his men.

He starts to fill out too, all the food and walking they’ve been up to. She realises how sickly being in England, and the stress of the vendetta had made him, how it had affected him. Before now, she had only seen him in winter both in New York and Birmingham and feels a little sad. He had his colour back. This was a man who thrived in the summer

And he was all hers.

They’re sitting, one afternoon, on the stone bench at the bottom of the garden. They had been helping his Nonna outside all day; uprooting weeds in the vegetable patch, plucking ripened fruit from the orchard, and were taking a much-deserved rest. Letting the breeze running off the sea cool them down.

He idly rests his hand on her leg, just above her knee, through the thin cotton material there. It sends a thrill through her and suddenly she can't help herself, doesn't care that his family is nearby, still puttering about up the garden. She leans in close and whispers in his ear that she’s not wearing anything under her dress. Which was the truth, and yeah, maybe she had planned this earlier in the day, but this was the effect he was having on her these days.

His hand tightens, not unpleasantly, on her knee and she gasps. He stares at her for a beat then shuts his eyes tight, rolls his head back, and sighs over-dramatically at the sky. Then falls sideways, letting his head land in her lap. Luca groans lightly like he’s in physical pain, the sound muffled by her dress. 

“You’re gonna kill me, doll,” he chuckles, and turns in her lap to look up at her. Not for the first time, he thinks.

“Hopefully not,” she grins, “But maybe we should head back in and find out.”

Her own sartorial choices aside, Luca too had entirely ditched items of clothing these days. The three-piece suits of the past were gone in this weather, it being far too humid for them. She finds herself just barely missing them, considering he was all open-necked shirts, and loose linen trousers these past few weeks. Only throwing on a jacket when they were heading out somewhere. More often than not, at home, he was reduced to just an under-shirt; tattoos on full display through the thin t-shirts.

Overall, she could get used to it.

They stroll around town, hand in hand, under the gardens of stone pines, and cypress trees that line the outskirts of town. Through the winding, pebbled streets and lane-ways of the business district. Emilia tries to take it all in, the wooden shutters, and flower boxes full of herbs hanging in every window. Homely, somehow in a place she had never been before.

They follow the gentle slope of the town downwards towards the sea. Luca makes a show of talking to the locals, asking about their trade, about their families, whether he knows them or not. Though a lot of them seem to know him already, which troubles her on a professional level. He doesn’t even live here, how does everyone know him? Emilia suspects Nonna.

They’re down at the water’s edge, meandering along an esplanade when she spies a group of men huddled around a doorway, clearly looking at and talking about them. Luca hasn't spotted them yet.

She holds tighter onto his elbow, pulling it down a little so she can subtly whisper into his ear.

“Do you know those men?”

He follows her gaze to the group, squints, seemingly thinking about it.

“Mm, maybe one or two.” His face is unchanged, he doesn't seem all that concerned.

“They know you,” she murmurs under her breath. She tries to pull away, put herself on the other side of him, between him and this group.

“Don't you dare.” Luca holds tight onto her arm, keeping her where she is.

They pass the men, who continue to stare, without incident, but also without greeting. Something that wouldn't unnerve her so in England, but does here where strangers were generally more friendly. Or at least had been.

Luca laughs a little when he catches her looking back at them, "You're like having security around.” 

Emilia rolls her eyes, “Well you need it, you didn't even notice them.”

But, she’s right, her hyper-vigilance had paid off time and time again, so Luca doesn’t push it.

“I don’t think they were dangerous,” he tries to reassure her.

“Then why not let me move?”

Luca looks down at her, barely turning his head, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I don't like the precedent it sets,” he grumbles.

He had been speaking a lot of Italian lately, they both had. The effect of it on her had worn off slightly, much to her displeasure. But in that one look, in that one sentence he sounded so particularly American, so disdainfully New Yorker again. She begins to think that might be the draw card here. 

Emilia snorts a little, never mind the already damning precedent she had started in that factory in Birmingham. 

“There he is,” she mutters, sly. She tucks her arm around his lower back and feels him roll his shoulders, like he’s pleased with that.

They continue wandering down the road, gravel crunching under their footsteps.

“They were looking at you,” Luca says quietly after a moment.

She snaps her head up to look at him, follows his gaze down to the neckline of her sundress. Wrinkling her nose, she replies, “They were looking at me because I'm with _you_.”

She had seen people eye the tattoos, the fresh scars, wonders if he cares. Being such obvious markers of who and what he was. People were still cautious of him here.

He had pointed to something in a shop, the black hand tattoo on his wrist slipping out from under his loosened shirtsleeve. The shop attendant nearly jumped out of her skin, just barely regaining her composure so she could serve them.

He takes her to a fancy restaurant that evening. It’s a slight drive to the far side of town, but Luca promises it will be worth it. And it is. They sit out on the balcony of the place, nearly surrounded on all sides by the vast horizon of the sea. Flowered vines weave and hang overhead, and candles light the tables around them as the sun slowly sets. It’s easily the nicest place in town, maybe in this whole part of the country. A taste of his promise to take her out, to show her off. 

“Don’t tell Nonna,” he mumbles close to her ear as he pulls the seat out for her. They share a conspiratorial smile. Emilia can already imagine his grandmother’s reaction to discovering they went out somewhere so lavish to eat.

For all its opulence, though, Emilia doesn’t miss the way their waiter pointedly does not look at Luca’s face, how his hand visibly shakes as he pours their wine.

She tells Luca over dinner, “That girl from the other day, from the shop. She took me aside afterwards when you weren’t looking. Asked if I knew what I was doing, asked if I needed help.” Emilia was used to people mistrusting her, it was mostly warranted, but this was different. These people lived and worked around this part of the country, around the families, and everything that came along with that, and the man across from her was still an anomaly. Something to be feared.

Luca laughs at that. 

“Do you?” He asks, still chuckling. “Know what you’re doing?”

She looks at him, elegantly sprawled in the chair across from her, pressing his grin into the knuckles of one hand, his eyes crinkle in the corners. 

“I think so,” she murmurs, burying her own smile into her wine glass.

Something flutters in his chest, like light. He’s happy, he realises. Couldn’t give two flying-fucks about those nosey sons-of-bitches back at the beach, about the skittish shop assistant, or the waiter who won’t fully meet his gaze, because all he could see was her. Luca had blinkers on for everyone else.

And in the dying light of the sun, it's like a haze clears for him. 

This is what she had been trying to tell him from the start. He had been wallowing, had been basically in mourning, not just since Tommy in the factory, but maybe since before this whole thing had begun. He had lost, had felt like it. All she had said was maybe you didn’t. Maybe your life doesn’t have to look like that. And how would she know if she hadn’t also lost everything once? Hadn’t already come to that conclusion. On her own too, which only made it more impressive.

Doesn’t have to be me, she was saying. But maybe it could be. I could be the thing you hang your hat on every day. I can take it. If you can take mine.

She rubs his leg with her foot under the table, looks at him under her eyelashes. Drawing his attention, bringing him back to the present.

Not a light in his chest, but a thunderbolt.

She wasn’t really saying I don’t want to fix you; she was saying there’s nothing _to _fix, not in her eyes.

And, God knows he feels the same way.

* * *

It rains one day, forcing everyone inside. Luca has been preoccupied most of the day, puttering about, helping Sal fix things, including a leak that sprung in the old stone carport out front. Emilia decides to stay out of the way, and takes refuge inside, drawing herself a nice warm bath. 

She’s just settled herself in the water, when Luca strides back into the room his button-down soaked through. He raises his eyebrows when he sees her but doesn’t stop. He reappears in the doorway a moment later, stripped down to his undershirt. Leans against the doorframe, running a hand through his own damp hair.

“Stai divertendo?” She asks, resting an elbow on the edge of the tub. _Enjoying yourself?_

Luca pushes off the frame and approaches, puts a hand out and ever-so gently runs the back of a finger along the edge of her jaw. She leans into it, tilting her head back so he can hold her chin lightly. 

“Now I am,” he breathes out. 

Had he always looked at her like this? There was a softness around his eyes, a softness he didn’t have for anyone else. Not even his family here, just her.

He leaves her suddenly, returning moments later with a book and lighter in hand. She picks up a cigarette from the tin resting on the table beside the bath. They hold eye contact as he clicks the lighter for her, watching her inhale deeply. 

“Read to me,” she says on exhale, motioning towards the book. 

Luca smirks, the corner of his mouth turning up. He opens the book and begins. He starts out sitting nearby on the closed toilet but slowly moves closer, onto the tiles and eventually close enough to drift one hand through the warm water. She holds it loosely in hers, traces the rosary around his wrist, listening to the deep lilting tones and Italian syllables. Not really listening to the story but getting lost in the comfort of his voice.

Afterwards, Luca leaves her to dry off. She emerges from the bath, wrapped in a towel, and finds him in the room, pulling his undershirt over his head. He sits on the edge of the bed and summons her forward with a tilt of his head, a reversal, a bastardisation of their first night at the villa.

He pulls her standing form towards him, towards his mouth. Rips the towel away, kissing his way across her chest. Her body is warm to the touch and made pliable from the water. He lifts one of her legs onto the mattress, holding her steady so she doesn’t lose balance as he moves lower, worshiping her with his mouth.

Eventually her legs are shaking too much, and her hands in his hair are bordering just on the edge of painful. He rises from the bed, nudging her nose with his on the way up.

She can smell herself on him, on his lips. Can feel he’s ready for her already, through his trousers. But he lets her catch her breath for a moment, running his hands up and down her ribs. After a minute of pure anticipation, she feels his hands stop, and his eyes delve into hers, questioning. Emilia nods, and Luca shifts forwards, capturing her lips hotly with his. His hands tighten, and in one fell move he turns and deposits them both onto the bed, without breaking their kiss.

He presses her into the bedsheets, kissing her as if he wants to swallow her. He gets a hand to her, plunging into the heat where his mouth was moments ago, and she digs her nails into his shoulders, gasping.

“So wet,” he grunts under his breath, as it coats his fingers. 

From him, for him. She feels him trying to move downwards again, but stops him by tightening her thighs around him. She bites at his jaw briefly, and flips them. Pushing him into the bed, and straddling his hips.

“For you.” 

"Mia—"

She pushes his trousers properly down his hips, and his cock springs free, achingly hard. His eyes watch her movements, dark with intensity. Emilia rubs herself up and down the length, slicking him up before plunging him in, so swiftly it nearly pulls all the air from his lungs.

“Solo per te,” she mumbles. _Just for you._

He was littered with other small scars amongst the black whorls of tattoos, scratches and scrapes from a life lived. She digs her fingers into them as she rides, grinding fully seated in his lap, letting his entire length stretch her out. She was going to memorise them all, just like his looks to her. He was almost-frowning, biting down on his lip, exhaling heavily despite the fact that she was the one doing all the work. She knew that look by now: he was hanging on by a thread. And it’s this that sends her over her own edge, tossing her head back, and fluttering around him.

She tries to continue her movements, but her body tenses and she falls forwards, burying her face into him, into the smell of dampened skin. Luca takes over. He grips her back and ribs, thrusting his hips up. His arms wrapping around her are tender, almost at odds with his pace. And only when he has rocked her through, when she is an over-sensitised mess in his arms, begging for him to come, does he release. Rests his forehead against her shoulder, and comes undone, in every sense.

* * *

“Luca, there’s a car for you in the driveway,” Sal says, and it’s in English so Emilia’s interest immediately piques. Luca frowns, they had just sat down for breakfast, he gets up from his spot at the table and quickly moves to look out the front window.

His face hardens, his mouth pulling into a straight line.

“What is it?” Emilia has gotten up and followed him to his spot at the window. He pulls her quickly away from the glass, and spins them around, letting her fall into his embrace. The rest of the family has come out to see what’s going on now, followed by a symphony of “Che cos'è?”

“Spinietta's,” he says into her forehead, before pressing a kiss into the same spot. Behind her, she vaguely hears his grandmother exclaim something in shock. Emilia pulls back in his arms, so she can look up at his face. “I have to go,” he says, his voice stiff.

Emilia opens her mouth to argue— but he puts his hands on the tops of her arms, and holds her in place, bringing his eyes down to level with hers. “I have to go,” Luca articulates seriously, “Do not try to follow me.” He’s speaking very clearly, and emphatically, in a way that unnerves her because she knows it’s his boss voice, his follow-these-orders-or-die-voice. There’s a beep from the car outside, they’re impatient. “I mean it, Mia, you’ll only be hurting yourself, and me, if you do.”

She doesn’t nod but doesn’t say anything else in rebuttal. She clenches her jaw, and exhales sharply, holding his eye contact.

Luca nods apparently satisfied. He leans forward, “Ti amo,” he whispers against her lips, and kisses her forcefully, before turning and heading straight for the door without another word.

He doesn’t even have time to grab a jacket. Just heads out in his shirt and open vest, combing his hair back into its usual style, a little frantically, with his hands.

An overly cheerful, “Ciao, Luca!” Greets him at the car, and Emilia can’t actually believe what’s about to happen. She watches him get in, and the car drives off, back down the long driveway, and then it’s gone. She blinks, watching the spot the car had just disappeared from. She had worked so damn long, and hard to keep him alive, just for him to walk off to his probable death, like it was nothing. 

In a daze, she follows the women back into the kitchen, picking up some of what they are saying; it was their village, but the Spinietta's are still ultimately in charge here, and we should have expected this, and what are we going to do if anything happens to him? Who would be head of the family? And eventually, Emilia can’t take it anymore, she loudly offers to help them prepare the dinner for this evening, desperate for something to do. Anything to keep her mind off what might be happening elsewhere. The women are shocked but grateful, and quickly set her to work. 

She cuts about 40 tomatoes before she feels like she’s about to lose her mind.

She’s sitting in the garden, watching the sun go down over the far hills. It was meant to be a peaceful recluse from the oppressive atmosphere inside, but she had just found herself aggressively chain-smoking, and glaring at the beautiful sunset.

Luca’s been gone a couple of hours when she hears a commotion from inside the house, she doesn’t dare look.

And then she hears his deep voice from the kitchen, “Dov'è lei?” The outer door opens a moment later, and she feels his presence behind her. He sits down in the grass beside her with a slight grunt.

“Zio says I’m in trouble with you too, now.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, keeping her eyes on the view. “I haven’t decided yet,” she replies, her voice is clipped but doesn’t necessarily sound angry. She takes another long drag on her quickly dwindling cigarette.

Luca reaches over slowly, and plucks the cigarette from her lips, putting it between his own and taking a quick drag. His eyes watching hers the whole time, she’s never seen him smoke before and the novelty is arresting. He pulls a face on the exhale and flicks the butt off into the garden. She tries to hide her amusement by turning back to the view, but he bumps his shoulder into hers playfully, meaning he had caught it.

She huffs out a laugh, before deciding she can’t wait anymore, “What did they say?”

Luca sighs, leaning back on his hands in the grass, “Nothing I wasn’t already thinking. They might have given me the okay for the vendetta, but a lot of men died on my watch.” 

“_A lot_ of my men,” His sad eyes look back at her, “And, I’m gonna have to pay for that somehow.” She frantically scans the length of him, searching for injury of some kind. He appears completely relaxed, and completely unharmed. Would he even tell her if he was injured? 

“I’m fine, I’m just gonna have to work hard to make up for it in New York.” She didn’t even want to think about what exactly that entailed. “Besides,” he begins, with a small smile, “I think they appreciated the push they have into the gin market now.”

She took some comfort in the fact that her double deal against Tommy had worked favourably for Luca once again, grateful for any part she could play in ensuring his safety, especially after feeling so helpless most of the day.

“That’s it?” She asks, chewing the inside of her cheek again, “‘Cause, Luca I know you’re not scared of dying but I— I’ve been—” she stops herself. She could barely believe he was here at all, had already been planning for the worst. Thinks of him on his knees, face bloodied, ready to die by Arthur Shelby’s hand.

“That’s it, doll. Little intimidation, that’s all. Make sure we’re all on the same page.”

She still doesn’t look reassured. 

“You know,” Emilia begins quietly, “I know how it is here, between the women and men.” She turns her body to face his fully, her knees gently leaning against the outside of his thigh. “I’m sure it’s similar in New York, too.”

She knows she had had it too good being around Polly for so long. The family had joked about Arthur spilling everything to Linda, but she was quietly sure John and Tommy had been open books with their wives as well. It was different here, within the Italian families, the machismo so much more delicate. She had seen the way Sal had looked at her askance whenever she had just been listening to a conversation about Luca’s work, God forbid she try to give her input.

It was too dangerous, too hard, too whatever reason they could think of, to tell the women anything. And she had talked with the women of the family, with the townsfolk. They were no dummies, they were all well aware of everything that was going on anyway, but couldn’t be told. All because of some fucking code.

He doesn’t say anything, just waits for her to finish.

“I don’t like being left out of the loop,” is all she says.

Luca sits up, and smiles, a warm genuine smile she had missed, “No secrets between us, we agreed.” He hums, thoughtfully, and continues, “You were right. I wasn't afraid of dying then.” He bobs his head, peering over at her, “Think I might be now.”

Emilia scoffs lightly, “Well, if a modicum of self-preservation is the least I can give you, I'll take it.”

Thinks, a man who's hard to the world but soft with her. It'll do.

They sit in silence for a moment, the only sounds the breeze, and some typical clanging coming from the kitchen. It’s entirely peaceful, but her mind is racing

“I think you might have been right about it here. It’s far too fucking quiet,” she says, giving him a little conspiratorial smile.

“Well, they call it the old country for a reason,” he smirks, leaning into her shoulder again. 

“And,” Luca exhales dramatically, “We can go back to the city, whenever you want now. There’s only one more thing I wanted to do while we were here.” She looks at him curiously. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out an ornate, gold ring. Emilia’s sure her face is priceless; she keeps looking back between him and the ring. Luca smiles warmly, holding it up to her. 

“I know we never talked about it, but this was Nonna’s and she said she would be happy for you to have it, so.” He rocks his head from side to side.

It strikes her that he is still wearing the same clothes he was this morning, meaning he had been planning this for at least longer than today. And suddenly, an image of what might have happened had his meeting gone differently; Luca winding up dead in some Sicilian’s basement, and her finding his broken body, her finding an engagement ring in his top pocket. It might just break her, and it’s this thought that causes tears to well up in her eyes now. How close they came to not being here, not having this.

Luca nearly laughs in shock, his hands coming up to her hair immediately to pull her into an embrace. “Oh, _Mia_,” he says into her hair, “Mia cara, it’s that bad of an idea?” He’s teasing but has never seen her cry before and is honestly a little thrown by it.

She pulls back, wiping her red face, “Jesus Christ,” she mutters to herself more than anyone else. 

Luca is watching her carefully. He wipes a stray tear off her cheek, and says quietly, “We don’t have to.”

Emilia smiles with a flushed face, and simply holds out her left hand to him, “Yes, we do,” she sniffles.

Luca slides the ring home. They both stare down at her hand for a minute, taking it in, this moment, the past few weeks, few months. Everything, leading up to here.

“You want your other one back?” She holds up her right hand showing off the ‘L’ ring, laughing.

Luca wraps his arm around her shoulders, pressing his mouth into her temple, “No, I want to buy you a thousand jewels. Cover you in them, head to toe.”

She doesn’t doubt that he means it. “I think just the two are enough.”

They do the deed, bring in a priest Luca has known probably his entire life, draw up the legal documents, and the whole town practically invites themselves; they’re nearly all family to Luca anyway. 

It’s in the local church, standing high up on the hill in town, above the beach. It’s domed roof and elaborately tiled bell tower covered in creeping, purple-flowered vines. One large stained-glass window captures the light, and colours the marble inside spectacularly.

He places his hands out, palms up, and he looks at her like he can’t believe she’s here, a woman who had been in the very room when he lost everything. Who had made sure he didn’t. 

She’s momentarily distracted by the glint of cufflinks on his wrists. She rests just the tips of her fingers on his, looks a little harder and notices the glints of gold are actually two delicately engraved snakes, adorning his fancy suit cuffs. Emilia’s breath catches and her eyes flash back up to his as she slides her hands fully into his.

There’s hymns and prayers, and she’s never been more grateful she brushed up on her Italian, for the vows. They light their candle, and afterwards, they escape down to the beach where they stand with their feet in the water, hand in hand. Tethering on to each other, when everything else feels like a dream. Like it might wash away at any second. 

Eventually, Luca drags her back up the hill to the party at the villa. Where they both get entirely too drunk off his family’s extensive wine cellar, and Emilia passes out in his arms upstairs before they can even consummate their nuptials. Luca finds it mostly hilarious.

She makes up for it in the morning.

They plan their trip, and board a migrant ship to New York. The whole thing takes about two weeks, and she's never seen him look more pleased with himself than when he announces to the immigration officer at the docks that he is an American citizen, and this is his _wife_.

* * *

She had thought Italy suited him, but he looked just as at ease here too. Luca had worn Italy well, but New York had seeped into his bones, made him who he was. A stark confidence, an arrogance, that she found incredibly attractive, had returned to his stride.

The second they set foot in New York, Emilia wants to go visit Michael, she had avoided contacting him for the past few weeks just out of safety. But she needs to thank him in person and genuinely wants to see how he’s getting on, see how their plan was progressing. She’s desperate to get back to work if she’s completely honest. Their sabbatical had been sorely needed and functioned, now, as a sort-of honeymoon in her mind, but she had been still for too long and was beginning to feel restless, exposed. She knew Luca felt the same way. Which is why, no matter how much she wanted to see her cousin, they had some other more pressing personal meetings to attend to beforehand. Namely one Mrs. Audrey Changretta.

They’re standing outside a downtown brownstone, a chill autumn wind whipping around them, a dramatic change from the warm, sunny skies of southern Italy. “She’s going to be upset, isn’t she?” Emilia had asked in the ride over. Luca had been quiet the whole day, and in response to her question just reached out and held one of her hands in his. Now that they were finally here, standing outside her house, he had loosened up a little. Emilia was having the opposite reaction, the last thing she wanted to do was go up and face Mrs. Changretta, again.

He puts his arm around Emilia’s shoulders, “C’mon, I saw you face off against a dozen armed men with a single handgun, you’re not afraid of a little old lady, are you?” He jostles her a little.

She looks at him witheringly, out the corner of her eye. “Yes,” she replies, unequivocal.

He exhales and nods, looking up at the house mock-seriously, “Yeah, me too.”

Emilia can’t help but laugh, and he grins over at her, proud. She shakes her head and pulls out of his grip. “Luca, it’s not funny,” she’s still smiling but her voice comes out strained, “Last time she saw me, she basically said she thought I was the spawn of Satan.” He laughs loudly at this. Emilia has begun to feel a little crazy around the eyes. “And, now,” she motions up at the house, “I’m about to walk into her house after essentially kidnapping you away, and say ‘Hey, hope we can just forget all that happened, love. Oh, and by the way, we’re married.’”

He’s covering his grin with a hand, but his face has softened, and he watches her mini tirade across the sidewalk with warm, understanding eyes. 

Luca holds out his hands in a half-hearted shrug, “Look, is she gonna be upset that her son went and got married without even telling her? Probably.” This does not fill Emilia with confidence.

“But,” Luca steps back into her space, holding up his index finger to her, “That will all be negated by the fact that she will be extremely happy to see her son alive and well.” He taps his finger, along her coat, from her chest to under her jaw. He holds her chin lightly, letting his thumb skim along the skin there, tilting her face up so he can look at her fully. He keeps his voice low now that they are so close, “And, that is all thanks to you.” He bows his head and captures her pink, pouty lips with his. When he pulls back her lips are parted, and she exhales deeply. 

She takes his hand and threads it with hers, “Alright.”

When the door opens, the housekeeper greets them happily, apparently relieved to see Luca. She tells them Audrey is in the drawing room, and she’ll bring them some coffee and cake. Luca leads the way, past a grand staircase, and into a room down the hall, just past the entryway. They find Mrs. Changretta reading quietly on a chaise lounge, in front of the drawing room’s large fireplace, its warm glow lighting her. 

She jumps up when she sees Luca, wrapping him in a fierce hug. Emilia can feel the motherly love emanating from it, from the other side of the room. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming back?” she queries, looking excitedly up at her son.

“We didn’t have time, we decided it so suddenly.” It’s at this that Audrey notices the other woman standing in the doorway, Emilia’s hair curves in gentle waves framing her face, her light blue eyes looking back at Audrey’s cautiously. 

Luca watches his mother’s face close off, immediately, but she doesn’t lash out or even yell like his Italian relatives had. She simply, holds a hand up to his face, examining his new scars for a moment and turns around, sitting back in her spot on the lounge.

The housekeeper brings in the coffees and lays them out on the small table in front of the fire. Luca moves up to the lounge opposite his mother’s and motions for Emilia to follow. She hesitates for a second, her feet not cooperating, but Luca was right, she didn’t actually have anything to fear from this woman. Still, she sits next to him a little timidly, so he takes her hand, her ringed hand, and holds it in his. Resting their clasped hands on his thigh, he looks up at his mother. Ready, now, for anything.

“Luca, how could you?” That one still stings a little. 

She barely even raises her voice, a tone which immediately transports him back to his childhood. That’s when he and Angel had known they were in trouble, when she was so disappointed, she couldn’t even be bothered to yell. It was a tactic he had employed many times himself as an adult.

“She works for them, she’s family, and they tried to kill you.”

“I know,” he tries, “And —”

“Look at your face.”

“She saved my —”

“I can’t believe you would bring her into this house.”

“Stood in front of all of them, ready to die for —”

It’s like listening to two halves of a phone conversation, but they don’t know the other person can’t hear them. Emilia could see this was not playing out like Luca had imagined, was not going to plan.

“She’s a spy for her own government, you said that, you told me that,” Mrs. Changretta spits out. Offering up a final blow, “How can you believe a word she says?” 

Emilia’s ready to step in, ready to defend herself at any moment, but doesn’t want to overstep and do more damage than help. That, and she trusts Luca to do the job himself. 

“Mamma,” he pauses, breathing deeply. She’s reminded painfully of the warehouse for a second. This strong, formidable man brought down, turned into an exposed nerve under her gaze, her scrutiny. In that cutting way that only mothers could seem to do. Emilia had seen Michael cowed the same way.

He had held a hand up to stop her, and rubs it over his face now, “When I went over there, you were all I had, we were all each other had.” His voice is soft, and slow, for how heatedly they were just arguing. “It’s not like that anymore.” He carries on, while he still has the floor, “Mamma, I’m getting old.” 

Mrs. Changretta looks downward, in thought. “I want more for us,” he motions to all of them, “For all of us.” He tightens his hand over Emilia’s.

“You have anything to say for yourself?” Emilia finds herself suddenly being addressed. Mrs. Changretta says it in the same tone you would tell-off a tardy student, the woman really was a schoolteacher. It’s a voice that makes Emilia want to sit up a little straighter.

She clears her throat, “I think I paid my dues to Luca in terms of trust, but I can appreciate that I still have a lot to prove to you.” Emilia leans forward to emphasise this next point. “I know how much you mean to him, and how much your opinion means, even though he won’t say it. Whatever I can do in your eyes, to make it up to you, to prove to you my intentions are honest,” she lifts her shoulder; shrugging, in a show of calm confidence, “I am willing to do it.”

And, he loves the woman sat next to him, fiercely. His chest hurts with it.

“Even if I said go back to Birmingham, and leave my son be?” Mrs. Changretta replies quick.

Luca bristles, “Ma—”. Emilia puts her hand out to stop him short.

“Maybe except for that,” she replies, demurely, “Burnt all my bridges on the way over here, see.” Emilia smiles, a little too sweet, “I’m afraid I’m in for the long haul.” She’s willing to make this work, but she won’t be intimidated.

Audrey’s eyes squint closed ever so slightly, assessing her. The same way Luca does when he’s contemplating something he’s heard. 

“Well, I have to say well done to you then, Ms. Turner. You threw yourself in front of him to save his life and it worked. I wish I could say the same.” Emilia had heard how it had happened at the docks, how Audrey had begged for her husband’s life, and John and Arthur had taken him anyway. Maybe the woman sees a little of herself in Emilia.

Emilia’s eyes flicker over to the man beside her. Luca is looking down, his head bowed. Emilia blinks away the shine in her eyes. 

“I wish you could too.”

Audrey smiles wistfully, staring between the two of them. And that’s definitely not the end of it, but it seems to be the end of it for now, at least. Nobody says anything for a moment, then Audrey gasps a little, apparently remembering something.

“I’m sorry, I said ‘Ms. Turner’ back there, but it’s not anymore is it?”

Emilia stares back at her wide-eyed, suddenly very conscious of where her left hand is placed. Luca holds a wide palm out in surrender to his mother, “We were gonna tell you.”

She all but cuts him off again, “Please, Luca, you bring a girl in here wearing your Nonna’s diamond ring on her finger and expect me not to notice?”

This time she does yell.

But, Emilia thinks, at least it’s not about her, not really. Just about what a bad son he was, and how dare he not have a wedding his mother could attend. It’s almost funny.

Emilia sits back and sips her coffee, contentedly, listening to her husband and mother-in-law bicker.

* * *

They enter the bar together, Luca tilting his head in recognition at the barkeep, it’s slightly dingy and dark but she spots him right away.

Michael stands to greet them, he’s still using his cane, but he looks tall and strong. Emilia steps towards him, hesitating just before she reaches him, but Michael opens his arms to her, and she steps into his embrace.

“Hello cousin,” he says warmly, into her shoulder.

She pulls back, holding onto his shoulders, can’t help her face from breaking out into a massive grin.

“Thank you for what you did, Michael,” she says, still beaming. “I know you didn’t have to, especially after —” she motions to his walking stick.

Luca pipes up at this, nodding, “Hey, no hard feelings, kid.” He steps up to clap Michael on the back, genially. “You ever need a doctor or anything for that, I can get you the best one in the city.”

Michael’s staring, his mouth hanging slightly agape, but he recovers quickly. “Thanks,” he replies, “But it's healing fine, physician says I won't even need this in a few weeks.” He gestures with the stick.

“That’s great,” she tells him, and they move to sit at one of the booths.

Luca gets them each a drink but then leaves them be, he knew they needed their time and wanders over to take a seat at the bar.

She smiles watching him go. Michael watches her, “You realise he’s terrifying right?”

Emilia looks back over at her cousin, smirking, “It’s kind of what I like about him.”

Michael exhales, shaking his head, “Whatever does it for you, I guess.”

That makes her laugh. 

He smiles with her. “You look good,” he says into his glass. 

Emilia half-shrugs.

“Happy, I mean,” he clarifies, “And tan.”

She laughs again. “Honestly Mike, thank you,” she says again, because it bears repeating. Michael was instrumental in their escape, in selling it to the Blinders.

Michael shrugs, waving a hand in dismissal. “I don’t care about Changretta, Em. Don’t think I ever did.” He stops for a moment, scrunching his face up, “Maybe I should even thank him, he made them show themselves for what they truly are."

She sits back, letting him go.

"They tested my loyalty for no reason, and I chose wrong apparently. So, now I’m exiled. For what? For life? All so Tommy can run his fuckin’ gin.” 

He lets out a long breath, had definitely been bottling that one up for too long. Emilia can relate, was just glad to have someone else finally see it her way.

“Your mother finally got what she always wanted, I guess," she says. "You out of Birmingham, out of the family’s nasty business.”

Michael rolls his eyes a little.

“Guess she should have thought about that one, considering.” Emilia looks pointedly around at the illegal speakeasy they were currently holed up in.

Michael smirks tellingly, and she _knew _he hadn’t just been sitting pretty in New York this whole time. She wanted to know everything he had been up to, every sordid detail. But first, she lays her hands on the table in front of them. 

“You didn’t choose wrong, for what it’s worth,” she says, her voice low and serious.

He nods, agreeing, “Yeah, let them think they won. We don’t need them.”

He raises his glass to cheers her. She watches Luca on the other side of the room. His hands gesticulating as he tells a story, smiling with the man behind the bar, an old friend.

“No, we don’t,” she replies, raising her glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
glossary of untranslated terms:  
Figli di puttana - Sons of bitches  
Ti amo anch'io - I love you too  
Dov'è tua madre? - Where is your mother?  
questa è - this is  
Merda - Shit  
Che cos'è? - What is it?  
Dov'è lei? - Where is she?  
Mia cara - My dear  
  
I'm honestly embarrassed at how long this is, like this is a novella. I just wanted something good for our favourite neck-tattoo having mafioso, and this kind of ran away from me. So, Buon Appetito! p.s don't @ me on the language (plz do if there's a glaring mistake). I think I read in a yt comment that Luca was probably speaking Sicilian, or like that's what they were going for? But I don't speak Sicilian, and neither does google.


End file.
